


Make Yourself at Home

by Brinchestiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Charlie Bradbury, Bottom!Cas, Cas is an interior designer, Castiel Smokes, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Dean in Denial, Dean plays the trumpet, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, England (Country), Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Homelessness, Human Balthazar, Human Castiel, Jazz - Freeform, London, London at christmas, M/M, Musician Dean, Slow Build, Sorry Not Sorry, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, cas saves dean, homeless!dean, top!Balthazar, top!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-03 11:56:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5289767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brinchestiel/pseuds/Brinchestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>**Now with beautiful artwork by the wonderful Elena @PurgatoryJar on Tumblr! Thank yooooou!!**</p><p>Ex Trumpet teacher, Dean Winchester, is celebrating his one month anniversary of running completely out of money; he lost it all, selling everything but the clothes on his back and the sleeping bag wrapped around him, to try and stay afloat. His brother, Sam, remains blissfully unaware that his proud older brother is out in the pouring rain, this late November morning, begging spare change from London's high-fliers, his fingers close to freezing off.</p><p>Despite being horrendously late, Castiel reasons that today will be the day he appears to have his life sorted out; today is the day he makes a good impression on his stupidly seductive client... that is until he's happy splashed by a bus, mere metres from the office. In that moment, he decides to give in to fate; if a whole day lazing about in his dressing gown is what the heavens want from him, who is he to decline?</p><p>Apparently, though, that's not all fate has in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

 

_Late November, London_

 

Today marks Dean’s one month anniversary of being homeless, he realises glumly, as he holds out his cardboard McDonald’s coffee cup to various pairs of shoes passing him by. The cup catches more rain than pennies, but he refuses to concentrate on that for now. It's early, only 8:30, and people file into work, desperately clinging to their umbrellas against the downpour in central London. Dean sits outside a monstrously tall building in the middle of the city, mostly because it has an overhang that he can sit under to avoid the worst of the rain. The biting wind, however, is less avoidable, and he snuggles deeper into his tatty, navy blue sleeping bag in a fruitless attempt to escape its teeth. He lifts his hand, covered in a fingerless glove to his roughly-bearded cheek, trying pointlessly to warm it up.

“Any spare change?” he croaks every few seconds, working his way into a rhythm, almost like a chant people say in church, like a prayer. Some people who pass, mostly women, have the good grace to say “No, sorry” in reply, but most just ignore him, like he's just another stain on the pavement, insignificant, as if maybe the rain will wash him away. He tips his cup to drink the rainwater that has gathered in it; only a few drops that taste vaguely of the coppers he’d collected yesterday, but it's better than nothing. He brings his knees into his chest, and rests his cheek there as his eyes fall closed. He stays that way for the next hour, and then he’s alone. He checks his cup in false hope, as if maybe he missed the heavy feeling of coins falling into it, as if maybe he didn’t hear the happy sound of metal hitting the bottom. He huffs a humourless laugh as he stares into the empty cup.

He thinks back to his life six months back with a longing that hurts his heart. He remembers his little flat in South-East London, the steady job he’d had as a trumpet teacher in several schools across the city. He smiles sadly at the memory of the kids he used to teach; some of them were really getting good before he got laid off. One after the other, the schools he taught at gave him the same spiel, the same practiced speech that Dean imagined some of them recited in the bathroom mirror before they left: “We’re so sorry, Mr Winchester, but we simply no longer have the funds to provide our students with private instrumental lessons. From September, we’ll be taking a more general route with our music scheme. Again, please know, we’re truly sorry, but this is an unavoidable situation. Our hands are tied!” He’d tried to get another job, but his woefully empty CV just read: _Upper-Second Class Honors in Performance from The Royal College of Music,_ featuring inane phrases such as _Studying at a music college has enabled me to develop my inter-personal skills_ and _Dean is able to deal with high levels of pressure due to his extensive experience in performance situations._ He just wasn’t qualified to do anything except play, or teach others to play. And, even with a name like the Royal College of Music backing him up, Dean hadn’t managed to get his foot in the door of the performance world. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong contacts. Dean heaves a heavy sigh, remembering his trumpet; the last thing he’d sold for back-pocket cash, trying desperately to stay afloat in his flat that, by the end, had no phone, internet, gas or electricity. He imagines it gathering dust in the window of the pawnshop, un-played, unloved, neglected. Maybe it had found a new home, but somehow, that's even more painful for Dean to think about.

He thinks of his brother Sam instead, tucked up in his University halls in Oxford, totally unaware of Dean’s current living situation. They hadn’t spoken since Sam left; he’d left angry, disappointed, but now Dean misses his brother more than anything. But with no phone, Dean is entirely and woefully unreachable. He wonders if Sam thinks of him at all. _Probably not_ he chastises himself, bringing the front of his ratty-ass hoodie over his nose and huffing warm breaths across his chest, wishing he hadn’t sold his leather jacket.

* * *

 Castiel is late for work. He is _horrifically_ late. His boss is going to kill him. He's actually going to die today, he's pretty certain. He will die drenched and frozen, and god _damn it,_ he hates London in November, cold and grey, day in, day out. He pulls his long, tan trench coat tighter around himself as he breaks into a light jog. He can’t help but smile as he runs through the small circle of trees jutting out through the pavement, white-blue lights in the shape of snowflakes adorning their naked branches. Okay, so for all his whining, Castiel _loves_ Christmas time. He can easily forgive this ghastly weather, when he remembers that Christmas is only a month or so away. Which he definitely won’t have the money to pay for if he doesn’t _hurry the fuck up_. He groans, presses the button at the crossing impatiently. His office is _just there_. He's almost there. Just as the lights were turning amber, a bus speeds past him (honestly, how _do_ they drive so fast?), kicking up a wave of water from a larger-than-life puddle that had gathered by the curb.

“Oh! Oh, my … Oh my god!” He gasps, as freezing, muddy water drips from his hair, slinking slowly down his chest and back. He's absolutely sodden. How had he not seen that puddle? His trousers cling close to his legs, and his hair plasters itself against his forehead, trickling steady rivulets of dirty water down his face. He blows a series of raspberries before it can enter his mouth. Well, what the hell is he supposed to do now? He can’t very well go to work in this state; he has several very important meetings to attend, including one he’d really been looking forward to with that suave, devil-may-care artist, Balthazar. _God,_ he was so hot in his too-low-cut floppy shirts covered in paint stains, talking in that seductive voice about how he wanted his space open and exposed (Cas had choked ever-so sexily on his coffee at that). Since when was talking about an exhibition space so… so… _So, thank you, Mr Bus Driver, no really. Thank you, for making me miss that, I really didn’t need any sort of chance of redemption today,_ he thought bitterly, shaking his legs, trying to get rid of some of the water that was trailing down his skin and making him shiver. He sighs, dragging a gloved-hand over his stubble that he didn’t get to shave this morning, pushing his hair back in the process. He decides in that moment, as a muddy droplet of water falls off his nose that he has no choice but to call in sick. He doesn’t want to face the office this morning, and clearly, the Universe doesn’t want him to either. Who is he to argue with fate? He dials the number for his boss, and moves slightly down the road out of view of his office, mostly in paranoia, but also there's a nice, wide overhang that he can shelter under whilst he lies his way into a warm bath and a take-away King Prawn Balti.

“Castiel, where on God’s green earth _are_ you?! You are for-ty-five,” Cas keeps his chuckle to himself as he imagines her accentuating each syllable with an angry point, “minutes late! What? You fell down a manhole? Have you been kidnapped?”

Castiel schools his expression, holding his stomach for context as he groans down the phone, putting on his best _I’m so sick, please pity me_ voice.

“I’m so sorry, Charlie, I’ve been throwing my guts up continuously since 5 this morning. I’ve only just stopped, but,” he heaves dramatically, “I think it’s about to come back.” Yeah, nobody argues with a bit of good old fashioned throwing up for hours on end: literally no further explanation needed. He swallows unnecessarily loudly, “Sorry. I called as soon as I could. I don’t think I can make it in to the office today. I’ll try-“

“Oh my god, no thank you. So gross. Just stop throwing up by tomorrow. I’ll reorganise your meetings.” Castiel can almost hear her pinching the top of her nose in disgust, and grins at his success, before dropping all of his features into (what he thinks is) a convincing grimace and dry heaving once more.  
“Thanks so much, Charlie, I’m so sorry about this.” He whines, whooping in delight when she hangs up without another word. His clothes stick uncomfortably to his skin, but hey, a whole day to himself! And it's only Wednesday! Castiel fishes in his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and holding it in between his lips as he digs back in for his lighter. _Celebratory cigarette to me_ , he sings tunelessly in his head.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Castiel jumps with a rather undignified yelp in surprise, and yup, there goes his lighter, rolling away from him and into a puddle, submerged in its muddy depths. _Fuck’s sake._ Castiel turns around to see a man snuggled in a sleeping bag laughing at him. He braves the rain, shielding his cigarette from the downpour as he plunges his hand into the puddle to retrieve his lighter, shaking it vigorously. He sprints back under the overhang, but surprise, surprise, his lighter no longer works. Before he can stuff his cigarette back in the carton for later though, the homeless man from the sleeping bag is holding up a lighter to him. Castiel stops, staring at the lighter, then at the man holding it, before tentatively reaching out to take it from him.

“Thanks…” he says, lighting his cigarette and taking the first heavenly drag. He holds out his carton to the man, “You smoke?”

The man cocks his head to the side, mouth turning down at the corners, “I could be persuaded.”

Castiel smiles, pulling one out for him and handing his lighter back.

“Thank you.” The man smiles warmly, “I saw that bus driver happy-splash you, god, what a knob.” He comments, motioning to Castiel’s dirty white shirt collar and coat.

“I guess it really _does_ happen in real life.” Castiel chuckles, raising his cigarette to his lips again.

“Come, sit.” The man says, patting the pavement next to him.

“Oh… um,” Castiel mumbles, feeling significantly awkward.

“It’s alright, I don’t bite. It’d be nice to have someone to talk to.” _Right. Because you’re homeless, fuck, it must be so lonely,_ Cas thinks guiltily.

“Oh, you are _not_ looking at me with pity right now.” He says, a dark humour dancing in his eyes. Castiel shakes his head a little too fast and mutters a “course not” before plonking himself none too gracefully next to the man, shuffling about awkwardly, trying to prevent his clothes from sticking uncomfortably. To no avail, obviously.

“I’m Dean, by the way. I would shake your hand but it’s fucking freezing and my hand is finally getting toasty.” He jokes, and Castiel laughs.

“Cas. It’s nice to meet you, Dean.”

“Is it?” Dean huffs, his bearded cheeks hollowing as he pulls a drag on his cigarette, watching the cloud of smoke drift off into the air. Castiel lets that one slide, really not wanting to pry. His head falls back against the pristine wall behind him, breathing deep and just enjoying the fact he’s not in the office right now. His eyes fall closed, but snap back open when Dean speaks again,

“So, tell me about yourself… Cas? What’s that short for?”

Castiel smiles, “Sorry, you’ll have to guess.” He plays this game with every new person he meets; he’s not sure why, but he feels a little bashful about his name. Makes him sound… _Poncy? Up himself? Bible-bashing religious maniac? Are any of those the word he wants?_ It’s just embarrassing. Why couldn’t he have been a Steve? Or… a Jimmy or something.

Dean takes a long, slow inhale of his cigarette, looking down on it and nodding, seemingly satisfied before letting it drift out of his nose and hums thoughtfully. He turns to face Cas and wiggles his eyebrows,

“Is it Casanova?” he says, a stupid grin that lights up his eyes. Lights up the whole street. Castiel snorts,

“No, no it isn’t. Although, you know, I wish it was? So much.”

“I’ll keep thinking. So… where were you headed before… bus-gate?”

“Oh, I work at an interior design firm, just up the way,” he points with his cigarette before settling it back between his lips. Dean leans forward to look down the road, and raises his eyebrows, considering Castiel again.

“Nice. Oh, is it Caspar?” Cas guffaws, nearly choking on the smoke he’d just inhaled,

“As in the friendly ghost?” he grins, surprised at how easily this guy is to talk to. He starts to feel a little sad that his cigarette is almost finished.

“Is it?” Dean turns his body towards Cas, and shoots him another grin. This guy is so ludicrously happy, considering he’s homeless and it’s no more than 2 degrees Celsius out here. If the tables were turned, Castiel would bet good money that nobody would want to come anywhere near him if he were homeless. He'd be _the_ most miserable person in all the city.

“No, it’s not. But, another good suggestion. I’ll write to my parents and tell them.” Castiel smiles, stubbing his cigarette on the pavement beside him, and watching as Dean does the same. They sit, quiet for a moment. For some reason, Castiel doesn’t want to say goodbye, not just yet. He doesn’t know how condescending he would sound if-

“Dean, I don't suppose you'd ... I don't know... maybe like to hang out at my place? This afternoon?” _Right, okay, that’s that then._

Dean bristles, and he looks at the ground, his smile wiped clean off. _Well bloody done._

“Look, I’m not some… charity case. Thank you for the offer, it’s very nice, but… I’m doing just fine here.” He mutters, patting his sleeping bag and smiling again, but this time it’s strained and doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I never said you were a charity case, Dean, that’s not what I meant.” Castiel frowns. He hadn't spared much thought to this, if any, but now he’s suggested it, he thinks that maybe it’s a good idea. An excellent idea. A good deed. Good for his karma, or something.

“Come on, man, you don’t know me from Adam. How do you know I’m not gonna steal all your crap? How do you know I’m not an axe-wielding maniac?”

“Would an axe-wielding maniac really ask that question?” Castiel smirks, but Dean shoots him a look that says _think about it._ And think about it he does. “Alright, touché. I don’t know that… but I do know an Adam, and he’s, you know, he’s all right. An intern, but he’s cool.” He makes to stand, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets because he doesn’t know what else to do with them. Dean’s hands are rubbing over his face roughly, like he’s trying to wipe something away, something buried deep under his skin. Castiel shuffles from foot to foot, blowing out a breath,

“Okay, well… the offer stands. You take care.” He smiles, offering a half-hearted wave before turning around and walking away.

“Wait.” He hears Dean call. Smiling, he turns back around to see Dean rolling up his sleeping bag and picking up his cup.

“You sure?” he asks gruffly, the gratitude in his voice barely masked by the concern he’s piled on top. Castiel gives him a pat to the upper arm,

“Come on, I don’t live far from here, and it really is fucking freezing.” He laughs. Dean’s smile is cautious, but it’s better than nothing.

* * *

 

Dean cranes his neck back to look up at the block of flats that he’s about to enter. He’s excited but also a little skeptical. Could this Cas-idy(?) be luring him into a trap? He scoffs at that. What on earth would this guy want with a guy like him? He’s homeless, smells like the back of a dumpster and has nothing interesting to say about anything; he proved that in his inability to think of _anything_ to say to Cas-hew(?) for the whole fifteen minute walk to his front door. Not a thing. He hadn’t seemed to mind, but Dean had minded a whole deal. The thing about Dean is that he's the sort of person who suffers an infuriating mix of not giving a damn, but also obsessing relentlessly over what others think of him. Now, standing outside the front door of Cas-tle’s flat, Dean finds his head snapping back every few seconds, wondering if he should leave. He knows this was going to be super awkward for the both of them, and he isn't sure if he actually wants to face that. But, when Cas-hmere turns and chucks him a gentle smile before unlocking the door and motioning Dean inside, he pushes any self-deprecating thoughts clawing their way to the fore of his mind and steps across the threshold. He whistles high to low.

The front door opens onto a wide corridor, at the end of which lies a floor to ceiling window, which Dean is guessing, is one of many considering the amount of natural light bathing the dark wood floor. He jumps when he feels Cas-pian’s (so what if he likes C.S Lewis?!) hands on his shoulders, but relaxes as he feels his coat sliding down his arms.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, not wanting to move at all for fear of dirtying the walls or floors or … air.

“I suppose a shower would put you in good stead?” Cas smiles, disappearing into one of the rooms to the left. Dean follows him cautiously, and peeks around the door, careful not to touch the wall or door frame. It’s silly, he knows it is, but his skin feels like it’s caked in a mile of dirt and sweat and he can’t stand the idea of marring the white walls with any of it. Inside the room is a modest bed, facing another huge window, covered with a roll-up wooden blind. There’s a little bathroom off to the left, with a towel strewn across the entrance, and Dean smiles a little at that. He'd been worried that this flat was a little too _clinical_ and pristine for a person such as him to even be there, but seeing evidence of his host’s _humanity_ is enough to relax him just a hair. There are pictures tacked to the wall of roofs, varying textures of wood, metal, leather, intricate patterns sewn into material, some celtic, some psychedelic, all of them gorgeous. There are also pictures of peculiarly shaped furniture; high ceilings, rooms bathed in natural light, exposed red bricks, modern kitchens, homely kitchens, sunken baths… the pictures take up an entire wall, almost ceiling to floor, just like the windows.

“Nice place.” He comments, not really knowing what else to say. Even an abandoned shed would be a _nice place_ right now.

“Oh, thanks. It’s… um… well, it’s home.” Cas-hier shrugs, holding out a dark grey towel and some folded up clothes.

“I hope you don’t mind… we look about a similar size, and I thought you might want some clean clothes? It’s alright if not, gosh, I hope this isn’t dreadfully rude of me. I could… well I can put your clothes in the wash if you like? God, that’s not helping is it? I feel like I’m being patronising, please tell me if I am? I’d hate to do that to you, after all you’ve been through, wow why don’t I shut up? Talk for England, my mother used to say! It’s a disease really, I would thank you not to mock my condition, just kidding, it’s fine. Do you even want a shower? I just realised you didn’t respond! Wow, look at me, presuming to know what you want as if I know you, I really don’t, I know that, but that doesn’t mean I think you’re a bad person, good god, no! Make yourself at home, Dean, really, it’s f-“

“Thank you. That would be swell.” Dean says slowly, laughing as Cas-ino lets out his breath in a rush, and rubs the back of his neck, smiling shyly at the floor.

“The…” he clears his throat, “the bathroom’s just down here. The nice one, I mean.” He says to Dean’s shoes, slipping past Dean’s shoulder and leading him down the corridor. He switches on the light and holds the door open for Dean, who is, once again, taken aback by how elegant this place is. The shower is right at the end of the room, shielded by a large, dark marble wall. There is a large potted plant in the corner by the door, and a huge mirror spanning almost the entire wall behind the sink.

“You got style, kid.” Dean laughs, running his fingers over the clothes that Cas-ket leant him. He was trying his damnedest to remember the last time he’d felt something so soft.

After showing Dean how to use the shower, Cas-serole backs out of the room, smiling nervously, with a “if there’s anything you need, I’ll be in the lounge. After I clean up that is,” motioning to his wet, muddy clothes with a grimace, before closing the door. Dean is grinning when he catches his reflection in the mirror. His heavy sigh pulls his smile back into a frown as he surveys his appearance.

“Cas?” he calls, his eyes not leaving his reflection.

“Yup?” comes the faint reply.

“You got a razor?”

* * *

After snuggling his face into the soft, slightly damp towel for longer than was strictly necessary, Dean looks to the mirror again, and smiles shyly. Ah, yes, _that’s_ what his face used to look like. His hair sticks up all over the place, but it smells like coconut and his skin feels soft and smells of soap. He can’t stop smelling himself, can’t stop running his hands over his arms, because _damn_ he hasn’t felt like this in about a fortnight: he used to be able to bum a shower at the local gym that he didn’t have a membership for. They had a glass gate that would let members in and linger open for far too long and if Dean has mastered one thing in his life, it’s acting like you know what the hell you’re doing. He’d stride in confidently, stand under the water until it’d run cold, and leave again. But, after his fifth visit of this nature, he was escorted out in a less than polite manner… that was his last shower. He’d forgone showering for four or five days before during his student days, but after two weeks his skin had felt heavy, oily and had smelled downright gross. He pulls the plain black briefs and soft grey joggers that Cas-ualty had given him up his bowed legs, and slips the well-worn maroon t-shirt that smells like wood and dust over his head. He runs the towel through his hair once more, before giving the bathroom the once-over, making sure it was more or less as he’d found it. He feels that's really important.

* * *

 

Castiel had almost forgotten that Dean was in his flat, when he finally appears over an hour later, clean-shaven, his hair dripping and his clothes bundled in his arms.

“Hey!” he greets, standing to take Dean’s clothes and chuck them in the wash. Dean offers them shyly, not quite meeting Castiel’s eyes.

“Thanks,” he mutters, “for everything. This is… this is the nicest thing anyone has done for me in… well, in a long time.” His voice is a little gruff, and he clears his throat.

“It’s no bother.” Cas says as he turns and heads for the kitchen, situated on the other side of the long, open-plan space. Dean looks around; two dark leather sofas sit around a large, white sheepskin rug, contrasting rather pleasingly with the dark wood of the floor. There's another rug (maybe Persian? Dean isn’t sure) hung on the wall between the large windows. There are potted plants everywhere, a modest desk with a large computer, a small table with four mismatched chairs, and at the far end lies the kitchen; kitted in the same dark wood and white that seems to be the theme of the whole flat.

“Cas…trati, this is a really beautiful home, man. You design this place too?” he asks, running his hand across the desk and picking up a photo of his host and a red haired woman in graduation gowns, their arms wrapped tightly about each other’s shoulders. It looks as though the photograph was taken mid-laugh, and if Dean closes his eyes, he can almost hear it.

He hears a loud, musical laugh (just like he’d imagined coming from the photo) from the kitchen, and Cas-soulet re-appears with a mug of tea in each hand.

“Castrati! These guesses are getting better and better.” He chuckles, handing Dean one of the mugs.

“And, um… no, I didn’t design this place. These are just… things that I’ve collected along the way. Some of them inherited from my parents, others are things I’ve saved up to buy,” he explains, blowing on his tea, surveying the picture in Dean’s hands. He smiles and takes it from him, looking at it for a long while before placing it back on the desk.

“I’m sor-“

“It’s alright, Dean,” he replies, his voice suddenly quiet. “She was my best friend at University. Anna. She, um… she died a couple of years ago.” He swallows thickly, before clearing his throat.

“Man… I’m… I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t hav-“

“I said it’s fine.” He murmurs, sipping his tea and turning away from his desk. Now that Dean is really paying attention, this photograph is the only one on display with _people_ in it, from what he can see so far. He doesn’t want to pry, and almost definitely won’t, but it seems a little strange… sad even. He shakes those thoughts from his head and wraps his hands around the mug of tea, following his host to sit on possibly one of the comfiest couches he’s ever set his butt on. _Oh, sweet lord._ He sinks into the cushions and lets out a rather inappropriate groan, which earns him a quiet chuckle from Cas… he’s really got to find out what that’s short for.

“So, I’m running out of ideas, you gonna tell me your name any time soon?” he chimes, trying to keep his voice chipper, just in case his host is feeling more upset than he looks. He sees Cas’ lips quirk up at the sides, but he doesn’t look at Dean when he says,

“No, probably not. ‘Cas’ is fine though.” A few moments pass in total silence, before Cas speaks again, running a hand through his damp hair.

“Dean, how do you feel about beer before noon?”

The corners of Dean’s mouth pull down, and he nods several times,

“I could be persuaded,” he says, grinning wide.

* * *

 

Empty take-away boxes litter the dark wood coffee table, the delicious fragrance of Indian cuisine filling the whole apartment. Dean leans back, completely satiated like he hasn’t been in weeks. He’d forgotten how _hungry_ he was; having only just enough money at the end of each day that he’d have to decide between a coffee or a cheeseburger is simply his life now. He'd got used to it. But, this? This feeling of absolute fullness… it's immense. He’s _missed_ this. He sighs happily, his head a little giddy from the beers he and Cas have consumed. It's a little after 8PM, and they’ve been steadily drinking since 11. His eyelids hang heavy, his whole _face_ feels heavy, as he lifts it to look at Cas with a lazy smile.

“I’ll pay you back eventually, dude. Thanks, for everything. That was… pretty nuts.” He motions at the discarded boxes and pats his stomach happily.

“Don’t sweat it, Dean. This has been a pretty good day off so far,” He smiles, turning his head to gaze outside at the rain that had been pelting down on the city all day.

“Ghastly out there, huh?” Dean offers, following his gaze. Cas is quiet again, fiddling with the seam of one of the pillows which sports a god-awful picture of a bulldog dressed as the Queen. When Cas speaks again, Dean has to lean forward to hear him,

“Where would you be right now, if you weren’t here?” he murmurs, his voice suddenly sad again.

“Hey, man, don’t do that.” Dean chides, moving to sit next to Cas on the other sofa. He leans against the arm, his whole body angled towards Cas’. He cranes around, trying to catch Cas’ face, which is turned away from him.

“Where would you be?” he asks again.

Dean rubs a hand over his mouth as he sighs heavily.

“I sometimes head to Hyde Park…” he hesitates, “not this time of year though; Winter Wonderland is on… if I have enough change, sometimes I just ride the underground… See if I can get enough money together to get me into a shelter for the night. I, uh, I hate begging, I usually don’t say anything.” Dean hunches his shoulders, suddenly feeling incredibly uncomfortable in his current surroundings; warmth and comfort pressing in on him like a soft pillow pressed to his face. Earlier in the day, they’d swapped anecdotes from their lives, Dean recommending some jazz classics to put on in the background, memories of his college days weighing painfully on his heart. Dean had loved listening to Cas talk about his work, and the characters in the office, but… he hadn’t really heard anything about his family or friends. Dean had rambled on and on about Sam to compensate, shared a few of his favourite stories about his students and Cas had laughed loud and full… and Dean had almost entirely forgotten that he would have to leave at some point… go back out there, and face the dark, wet streets of London alone again. Like this had never happened. The thought makes him frown, but before he can think any more about it, Cas turns back to him, his face full of tipsy grief,

“Dean.” He says, placing a warm hand on Dean’s knee and squeezing, “I-“ he swallows and blinks hard several times, before looking Dean in the eyes again, “I couldn’t live with myself knowing I’d given you a _day_ of this… Sending you back out there again after getting to know you like I have today, and I-“

“Cas, don’t.” Dean groans, fearing that Cas was going to do something like this: take pity on him.

“I want to, Dean. I want to open this flat to you. I have a spare bedroom,” he says, pointing down the hall, his eyes glistening in the soft light of the room, “and I want you to take it.” He squeezes Dean’s knee again, smiling sadly, “ _If_ you’ll take it that is.”

Dean shakes his head, guilt clawing its way up his throat and clogging it, making it difficult for him to speak,

“Cas,” his voice breaks, and he curses under his breath, “I can’t… it’s too much. You’ve… given me a roof over my head all day, leant me clothes, bought food for me… it’s too much, I can’t take anything else from you.”

“You’re not taking, so much as I’m giving.” Cas says quietly.

“Cas-“

“Would you like to see the room?” Cas smiles, pushing himself up from the sofa. Dean doesn’t follow, just sits with his head in his hands, massaging the heels of his hands into his eyes so roughly, he actually sees white when he looks up again.

“I can’t pay you anything, Cas… I have literally _no money_. I can’t pay rent, I can’t pay for the electricity I’d use, the water… the gas, none of it. I have no clothes, I have _nothing_ to give back to you. I’d just be taking more and more from you, and I can’t… I can’t be a _burden_ like that. Not to anyone.”

Cas perches delicately on the edge of the sofa, next to Dean and lifts his hand, placing it heavy and reassuring on Dean’s shoulder, rubbing at the soft cotton of his borrowed t-shirt.

“Please, Dean…” he says, a slight frown pulling at his features, “You _deserve_ this.”

Dean scoffs, “No, I don’t. And neither do you, more to the point.”

Cas tilts his head to the side, like a confused puppy, frowning in earnest.

“Do you really think so low of yourself?”

Dean lowers his eyes, and plays with the hem of the t-shirt he’s wearing.

“You’re a good person, Dean… anybody with or without eyes can see that. I’ve known you less than 12 hours, and I know that. But, for some strange reason, not because of you, but because I don’t trust many people… I trust you. And, I want to give this to you. Please let me do this. We’ll work something out. It doesn’t matter about the money for now. This is about making sure you never have to go back out there… this is about making sure you know that you have a home. This one. If you’ll have it.” Cas is leaning forwards, trying to catch Dean’s eyes, but he wishes he wasn’t when they meet his and Cas sees they’re brimming with tears.

“It’s too much,” he croaks, carding his hands roughly through his hair. _Too fast_ he adds mentally. Cas sighs, standing slowly and holding out his hand,

“Come and see the room anyway? Maybe it’ll change your mind.”

Dean sighs heavily again, but heaves himself up off the sofa and follows Cas down the hall to the spare bedroom.

Cas flips the light on, revealing a modest room, plain walls, the bed made with several silken pillows in varying shades of green, a smaller sheepskin rug laid out beside the bed, another large window at the far end of the room, a gorgeous dark wood wardrobe taking up the back wall, sporting a full length mirror, unmarred, perfect. Dean sighs again, and walks into the room, placing himself carefully on the bed, groaning as it gives just a little under his weight.

“Well?” Cas says, smiling.

“Can I have a minute?” Dean says quietly, and Cas just nods, retreating back to the living room before calling, “The Apprentice is on at 9, so… chop chop,” over his shoulder. Dean huffs a laugh that has next to no amusement in it. This was a _big deal._ He runs a hand across the soft cotton of the sheets, taking in the room with its tall ceiling. He scrunches his toes into the sheepskin rug and feels himself relax a little. Would it be so bad to accept Cas’ offer? Sam would have somewhere to come when he visited… he wouldn’t have to explain that he’d run completely dry. Cas was a nice guy, hell, he was golden. He'd offered everything, and asked for nothing in return. Of course, Dean wouldn’t let that slide. He’d need a job… he’d have to do everything in his power to repay the guy. Could he do this? The answer: yes, of course. But _would_ he do this? The answer: _hell if I know._ As much as it was an overwhelming offer, when on earth would he ever get a chance like this again? A chance to start over? This way, he could rebuild his life from the ground up, he wouldn’t ever have to tell Sam that he had spent the last month with absolutely nothing but the clothes on his back and his ratty sleeping bag, looking at varying styles of shoe as they passed him by, day after day. He runs his hands over his face, trying to rub the doubt away. He should take this opportunity. He _should_. He casts his eyes about the room again, imagining the feeling of calling it his own. He presses his knuckles to his lips, taking a few steadying breaths before standing, switching the light off and rejoining Cas in the living room.

Cas looks at him with barely-concealed hope and Dean quirks his head, rubbing the back of his neck; a nervous habit he can’t remember starting.

“Listen… this…” he casts his eyes around the room before settling them on Cas’ face, all wide-eyed and optimistic, “this is the biggest thing anybody has ever done for me. I want to make that very clear.” His head snaps around when something explodes in an advert on the television, and Cas leaps up to mute it.

“Sorry, please go on.” He says, looking a little sheepish.

“Um… yeah. It’s difficult for me to accept your offer. It’s not you, it’s not the flat, it’s… me. I can’t - I feel like I don’t deserve your generosity, and I don’t think I’ll ever _not_ feel like that. But, you’re here, offering me a chance to get back on my feet, and that’s a whole lot better than facing going back out there again. I guess what I’m _trying_ to say is… can I sleep on it?”

Cas grins wide, jumping up from the sofa and pulling Dean in for a hug, which, for the first five seconds, he doesn’t return mostly out of shock… mostly because he cann’t remember the last time someone hugged him. He slowly winds his arms around Cas’ waist and pulls him close.

“Of course you can, Dean. Stay as long as you need.” Cas chuckles, pulling back and looking into Dean’s eyes for an uncomfortable amount of time. Dean gives him a push to the shoulder,

“Dude, no chick flick moments.” He grumbles, but he can’t ignore that suddenly he’s breathing a little easier, his heart hurts a little less.

* * *

 

Castiel is brimming with excitement. A little trepidation, but mostly joy… let's say 75-25. Letting Dean into his life like this is a whole lot of brave… a whole lot of stupid in some ways, but he feels like it’s _right_. Like it’s what he should do. He hadn’t even thought twice about bringing Dean here in the first place, and he would have never lived it down if he ever saw Dean out there, wrapped in his sleeping bag again. It feels good to give him a shot, to give him a helping hand when he needs it most, even if he is a perfect stranger. Dean, he's learning, is a surprisingly open person, willing to spill all sorts about his life, about himself, and that alone makes Castiel implicitly trust him, like he’s only ever trusted one other time in his life. With Anna.

He smiles sadly, looking back to Lord Alan Sugar pointing his chubby little finger at some poor, quivering dickheads in suits. He _really_ loves this show. Something in him revels in playing out the fantasy that he is Alan, pointing at people who’ve wronged him, shouting at them, making them quake in their boots at his sheer presence. Who doesn’t? He lets out a howl of victory as Lord Sugar fires all three people in the boardroom.

“Dean! A triple firing! We had one coming, but I really… wow! Didn’t see that coming!” He laughs, looking over at Dean, curled up next to him on the sofa. His arms folded tightly under his head, atop the arm of the sofa, his legs drawn in close to his chest. His eyes are closed, his breathing deep and steady. Castiel fumbles for the remote, turning down the volume and stands to crouch in front of him.

“Dean?” he whispers, shaking his shoulder gently. The reply he gets is nothing more than a displeased groan, accompanied with a deep frown and a pout.

“There’s a comfy bed with your name on it just down the hall.” He says, as Dean blearily blinks his eyes open.

“Shit, sorry man. Didn’t mean to fall asleep. What happened?”

“Triple firing!” Cas announces dramatically.

“Sorry I missed it.” Dean smiles, rubbing sleep from his eyes, “You sure you’re okay with me staying the night?” he says, just in case he'd dreamt Cas’ earlier offer. The glare Cas fixes him with is all the answer he needs to that question, and he scoffs, “Alright, man. Thanks again.”

“Any time, Dean. Just… just make yourself at home.” Castiel smiles warmly, helping Dean up off the sofa and turning the TV off. Dean throws him a tired smile,

“I could be persuaded to do just that, Cashew… Casserole… Caspian…”

“Castiel.” Cas laughs, “It’s Castiel.”

 


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is fast approaching: Dean gets back to his roots and Castiel is desperately trying to navigate two new relationships at once.

**Make Yourself at Home**

**Part II**

 

_December: 2 weeks until Christmas_

When Dean had told Castiel about his trumpet, and how he’d pawned it to try and pay another month’s rent, Castiel had tried to commit the name of the shop to every fiber of his being. He _wanted_ that trumpet for Dean. But, God, that was three weeks ago, and Castiel, no matter how hard he wracks his brain, simply can’t remember the name of the shop, and _dammit, why not?!_

The answer probably has something to do with the sinfully gorgeous man on top of him, currently trailing kisses up his body from his ankle; slow, open-mouthed kisses that make him writhe and whine in protest. He decides, yes, this is the perfect way to spend his lunch break.

It really had taken him a shamefully small amount of time to end up here, on his back with Balthazar’s firm body between his legs. Their meeting, the day after bus-gate and Dean agreeing to stay with him, was like a scene plucked straight out of a chick flick. Cooped up in the meeting room, with frosted windows that faced the corridor, with that level of sexual tension buzzing in the air was unbearable; like a ringing in your ears that just doesn’t quit.

Balthazar didn’t quit either. He'd tried _everything_ to get Castiel flustered and blushing. What had worked in the end was crowding Castiel against the large meeting table, his chest pressed flush against Castiel’s back, with his arms penning him in. Castiel was busying himself with example sketches, and pattern samples, saying mundane things like “I think we need _some_ pops of… uh… of colour, maybe… I was thinking maybe that could come from these… delightful… barstools. I found them… in Ikea,” his labored breathing giving him away entirely. Balthazar had pressed his lips, just so, against Castiel’s pulse point and hummed quietly in response.

“Or… um… for the… uh…. For the bar area, I thought perhaps… some dark leather… maybe some… exposed… mnf,” and just like that Balthazar had spun him around and kissed him, hard enough to bruise. Despite the happy flutter in his chest, Castiel had feigned horror, pushing him away and gasping.

“What are you doing?” he whispers sharply, “Anyone could come in!”

“Oh come on, Cassie, you’re killing me here.” Balthazar had whined in response, pulling Castiel against him once more. Cas couldn’t find the energy to even pretend to resist the second time.

“What if someone sees?” he’d whispered quietly, his lips bare inches from Balthazar’s.

“Mmm, let ‘em look,” he’d chuckled darkly, capturing Castiel’s lips again, bunching his pale blue shirt in his fists. And that’s all it took for Castiel to melt into a puddle of navy trousers and patent leather shoes. That’s all, folks.

“Balthazar, will you quit being such a tease?” he grunts, kicking his lover’s stomach playfully. Balthazar deftly catches the offending foot and presses an open kiss to the sole of it before resuming his torturously slow tour of Castiel’s leg.

“Hush, hush, Cassie. I want to take my time with you, is that such a crime?” Balthazar drawls against the soft skin at the underside of Castiel’s knee, lifting the leg to get better access. It tickles, and Castiel bites back a laugh, not wanting to appear childish, but… sexy… well put together… in control. Of course he doesn’t feel even slightly like any of these things, but who can honestly say they do at any given time? Right? _Right?_

He’s laid out on the large mattress that Balthazar keeps in his studio… maybe for this purpose alone; in the loft that overlooks the easels and paint pots below. Everything in here is raw and nostalgic; it smells like an art classroom. Castiel simply can’t believe that he’s here, underneath the man he’s been _dying_ to get his hands on since the moment he set eyes on him. With that thought, he’s reminded that he _is_ in fact allowed to touch Balthazar, and he wonders, aghast, why on earth he’s _not_. He sits up, winding his arms around his lover’s slender neck and pulls him down on top of him, locking their lips together in a slow, sensual kiss. He laps at Bathazar’s pliant lips, accepting the other’s tongue when it’s given. All too soon, their union is broken. Balthazar is gazing down at Castiel, a mixture of fondness and awe in his eyes, which makes Castiel squirm self-consciously beneath it.

“God, look at you,” he whispers, leaning back on his heels, running clever, calloused fingers down the planes of Cas’ stomach. Possessed by an unexplained confidence, Castiel sits up again, threading his fingers through Balthazar’s silk-fine blonde hair, pulling him down with it. That earns him a little grunt, which sends sparks of electricity straight to his groin. Castiel brushes his lips against the shell of Balthazar’s ear, delighting when he feels fingers tighten their grip by his hips.

“Stop looking, and fucking _take me already,_ ” he whispers hotly, his ‘sexy-and-in-charge’ disguise thoroughly ripped from him when he’s pushed back onto the mattress, his legs roughly pushed towards his chest. He giggles. He fucking giggles.

* * *

 

Dean closes the door behind him and stretches his arms above his head with a groan. That’s it, his first week of working in the local coffee shop completed. He did it. There was a smattering of moments where he thought he was actually going to die of stress, but he’d made it. And now, by some kind miracle (he’s been getting a lot of those recently), he has a weekend free of shifts, and he can’t be more excited about it. He places his keys, _his keys_ , on the hook by the door and slips off his jacket… well, Cas’ jacket, tossing it in the vague direction of _his bedroom._

God, he still can’t quite believe it. He’s earning money on the regular, he has a permanent home, and a blossoming friendship with possibly _the_ nicest person he’s ever met. _And_ he’s managed to get back in touch with Sam (who promptly sent him £200 in a bank transfer after hearing of Dean’s struggle, with a ‘don’t you _dare_ transfer this back to me’ attached), who, incidentally, had been worried sick about him for the last month. Which is nice to know.

It’s been good catching up with everything he’s missed; he’d received approximately 5,000 emails in the month that he was off-radar. Of course, most of them could be deleted on sight, but one had caught his eye. It had been from his old college friend, Benny. They’d been out of touch for quite some time, work and life getting in the way. They’d been emailing back and forth for a week or so, and now Dean is sitting at Castiel’s desk, logging on to check if Benny has sent a reply. He smiles when he sees Benny’s name in bold on the screen. 

_Hey! So glad to hear you’re back on your feet, that sounds like a hell of a ride. Sorry I didn’t know about it; would have offered to prop you up, you know that right?_

_Anyway, got a little proposition for you: we’re getting the band back together! We need your horn, man. We got a gig, a few weeks away yet, just after new year’s at Ronnie’s. Be there? There’s a paycheck at the end of it. Would be so good to play together again, brother._

_Say yes!_

Dean smiles sadly, thinking of his trumpet again. Maybe… maybe he could pick up some extra shifts at the café? He scoffs out loud. He’d never make enough to be able to buy his trumpet back in just a few weeks. His whole body _aches_  to say yes; he’d only ever played Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club once with Benny and his old college band, and it is still the best gig of his entire life. Maybe he could take out a trumpet on loan from an instrument shop? He sighs heavily. He’d have a trumpet, yes, but it wouldn’t be _his._ He may only be able to get it out for a few days; he has two months of not-playing to undo, and he seriously doubts he has the man power to overcome that in just a few days. No… he’ll have to decline. He has no other choice. It’s with a heavy heart that he clicks _reply_.

* * *

 

It’s around 7PM by the time Castiel finally makes it home; he hadn’t got much work done after he left Balthazar’s studio. He’d resigned himself to being distracted, and since he had no clients for the rest of the day, he used the time at his desk to begin the search for Dean’s trumpet in earnest, feeling utterly guilty for pushing it out of his mind for so long. He’d googled and contacted every pawnshop with a website, his search spreading across all of London. He had basically no information; didn’t know the first thing about identifying an instrument, but he knew they’d have a record of a Dean Winchester pawning it. That’s all he had to go on. He checks his emails on his phone again as he drops his satchel to the floor, shrugging out of his coat. Still nothing.

“Dean? You home?” he calls, and smiles at Dean’s grunt in reply. There are some mysterious noises coming from the living room, rustling, grunting and jingling. Castiel doesn’t hesitate to investigate. The laugh that’s forced from him surprises even himself.

He’s greeted with the sight of Dean, well… half of him, buried face-first in Castiel’s plastic Christmas tree.

“Come _on,_ ya sonuvabitch.” Dean groans, pulling at something. Castiel steps further into the room, picking up the plug end of the string of lights that Dean is currently wrestling.

“Need some help?” he chuckles, as Dean re-emerges, red faced and pouting.

“The damn things have gone all tangled,” he snaps impatiently.

“Aren’t they always?” Castiel smiles, moving forward to try and fix the lights.

“But… I _untangled them_. And then, I go and put them round the tree and they just… tangle themselves up again. I don’t understand.” Dean frowns, throwing his hands up and plopping himself on the sofa to watch Castiel struggle. He doesn’t have to watch long; Castiel solves the problem in about twenty seconds, which only serves to make Dean more annoyed. Castiel grins at him, all smug and victorious, and Dean grumbles,

“Yeah, well I loosened them for you,” folding his arms and deepening his pout.

“Would you like to do the tinsel?” Castiel teases, shaking several streams of bright red tinsel in Dean’s direction, laughing as his friend’s face instantly cracks out into a grin.

* * *

 

It’s 9:30PM, the living room now bathed in the twinkling glow of the Christmas lights around the tree, when Castiel’s phone pings, alerting him to a new email. Dean is too busy watching New Girl, pretending not to find it as funny as he does, to notice, and Castiel quickly grabs it, checking it secretively.

“That Balthazar?” Dean teases without taking his eyes off of the television screen. Even if he can’t see Dean’s face, from where he’s sat behind him on the other sofa, Castiel just _knows_ Dean’s eyebrows are waggling suggestively. He huffs, feeling a blush heat his cheeks.

“Yes,” he lies. It’s not Balthazar (he tries to not feel the stab of lovesick pain that keenly pinches his chest at that. Balthazar rarely contacts him unless he’s asking Castiel over to the studio. And he’s cool with that. No, really), but a man called Bobby, who owns a Pawnshop on Lewisham high street. Castiel holds his breath as he opens the email:

 

_Dear Mr Novak,_

_Thank you for your enquiry. I believe I have the item you have requested! We’re open tomorrow from 9-5. We’re in between Gregg’s and the Entertainment Exchange, the end of the street nearest the station. Looking forward to seeing you soon! Glad this instrument is going back to its rightful owner; Mr Winchester had looked so upset when he brought it in._

_All the best,_

_Bobby Singer_

Castiel is grinning like an idiot (pain from Balthazar’s radio silence totally _forgotten_ , honestly), and he swallows the laughter bubbling in his throat so as not to raise Dean’s suspicion. He can’t _wait_ to see his friend’s face come Christmas day.

“ _That_ good, huh?” Dean says. He’s turned around and there’s a full on smirk on his face that Castiel would really like to slap off if he wasn’t so damn fond of the guy. Castiel rolls his eyes dramatically, locking his phone and settling back on the sofa.

“You see him today?” Dean asks, waving an arm in the space between the sofas. Cas looks down at his lap, suddenly feeling bashful as memories from earlier that day flood his mind. Balthazar’s groans, the smell of his lover’s skin still lingering on his own, phantom hands retracing their paths across Castiel’s body. _God_ , he feels like a clingy, lovesick teenager all over again.

“Yes…” he murmurs.

“And?! Come on, man, I want deets!” Dean gives the arm of the sofa he’s sitting on a thwack for emphasis.

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.” Castiel teases, looking pointedly away from Dean, holding his chin high in defiance.

“Ah, fine, be that way. Spoilsport. I'll wrangle something out of you one of these days,” Dean smiles fondly, turning back around to face the TV. Castiel finds himself gazing at the back of Dean’s head, a small smile gracing his lips. 

* * *

 

_December: 2 days until Christmas_

Dean cradles the unfamiliar metal in his hands, running his hands lovingly along the pistons, following the tube with his fingers. The trumpet belongs to one of the other trumpeters in the band; a man Dean has never met before, who happened to have a spare he willing leant Dean for the gig at Ronnie’s. That was over a week ago, and Dean still can’t believe how much _luck_ he's suddenly getting. There _has_  to be a catch in all of this somewhere. Surely.

He’d been spending every waking moment when he wasn’t eating or sleeping, working with this instrument, trying to bond with it and understand it, working his way back to that old familiar feeling of making music with it; like his soul is on fire, tracing his veins, burning hot and bright behind his eyes.

Here he was again, sat on his bed, holding the trumpet up to his mouth, forming his embouchure and forcing his muscles to remember how to make that signature _Dean Winchester_ sound that Benny had said he _needed_ for this gig. He can’t let his friend down. Not at Ronnie Scott’s.

He blows a middle octave note, pulling the instrument away from his mouth almost immediately; assessing the sound… is that what he used to sound like? He repeats this process for twenty minutes or more, before his brain begins to buzz with fragments of jazz classics he used to play. He tries a few of them out; his fingers and ears following the thread of the melody like a string through a maze. He has to give credit to himself, he's remembering more than he’d expected to, and within the last nine days or so his confidence is growing again. He has no doubt that he will be a nervous wreck at the gig, but he's at least beginning to feel as though he _could_ do it.   

He lowers the trumpet again, gazing over at the pile of presents that he’d bought for Cas (with Sam’s charitable donation), waiting to be wrapped and put under the tree. He feels a little bashful about them, but he'd really wanted to save Sam’s money; the gifts were nothing more than cheap, unnecessary stocking fillers really, but he hopes they’ll appeal to Castiel’s adorably childish nature. There's a box of plasters with things like “ouch!” and “bugger!” written on them in comic book style, a ‘money tree’, a small plastic tortoise that, on a motion sensor, shouts insults at you every time you pass it, a harmonica and a personalised phone case, sporting a less than flattering selfie that Dean had taken specifically for it. He hopes it was a step towards _enough._ He lays the trumpet down carefully in its case, plucking the mouthpiece from the body and holding it to his lips, trying some of the old warm-ups that were once a part of his daily routine as he stands up to search the flat for some scissors and cellotape.

There's an odd shaped package under the tree already; it's been there for about a week now. Dean cann’t, for the life of him, work out what it is lying beneath that unassuming wrapping, but he's itching to find out. When Cas had placed it lovingly under the tree, he’d turned around to grin at Dean, who had watched the whole scene with wide eyes. He’d said “I really hope you love this, Dean,” before giving him a hug, which Dean now knew, was always far longer than necessary with Cas. A serious hugger, that housemate of his. Dean has watched several people squirm in his grip after about 10 seconds. Dean can’t honestly say he minds all that much. Castiel’s hugs make him feel warm and safe… and cherished or some shit.

“There you are,” he murmurs when he finds the scissors and cellotape in the desk drawer. He carries them back to his bedroom, blowing another arpeggio through the mouthpiece attached to his lips.

* * *

 

Castiel sits at his desk, finger tapping endlessly against the left-click button on his mouse, staring resolutely at a watch on his screen, seriously thinking about buying it and giving it to Balthazar for Christmas. But he's plagued with doubts: is it too soon? Too much? Do artists even _wear_ watches? Is a table at Ronnie Scott’s for Dean’s gig enough? Is this even a nice watch?

“A little flashy for you isn’t it, Cassie?” comes Balthazar’s voice, thick as molasses right by his ear. Castiel lets out an undignified shriek and hurries to turn the screen off.

“It’s… um… for a… for a friend,” he babbles.

“Lucky friend,” Balthazar purrs. Castiel whirls around in his chair to face him; wrapped in dark jeans, a tight, white v-neck and a dark suit jacket, his coat slung over his arm. He sighs deeply, practically drinking him in.

“Are you quite done staring, darling?” he chuckles, leaning down, bracing himself on the arms of Castiel’s chair, which slides back against the desk with a dull thump.

“I’m here to take you to the new exhibition space you designed,” he says in a low voice, reaching up and cupping Castiel’s cheek to stop him from looking anywhere but at him. It works, and Castiel feels his eyes widen when Balthazar leans ever closer, whispering in his ear,

“And I’m going to fuck you in it before my guests arrive.”

_Oh holy fuck._

“But… I don’t finish work for another,” a quick glance at the clock on the wall behind him, “4 hours,” he stammers nervously, palms already sweating.

“Well, I didn’t get to see you during your lunch break,” Balthazar mocks a pout, “don’t you want to see me?” The smug bastard knows _full well_ that Castiel is a hot second from sprinting out of this office.

“Is Charlie okay with it?” he whispers. Balthazar simply shrugs,

“Isn’t it customary for a designer to survey his work before the public sees it?” His hands are burning hot against Castiel’s thighs now, and inching higher and that’s about all the encouragement Castiel needs. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s grabbing his coat and eagerly following Balthazar out of the office.

* * *

 

Castiel breathes heavily, slumped against the brick wall, surrounded by Balthazar; his body pressed tightly against his back, the smell of his release, his sweat, in his nose, his art covering every surface of the room. He lets out a groan as Balthazar slides himself out, giving Castiel’s ass cheek a slap and a squeeze, causing him to wiggle his hips, seeking more attention. Balthazar’s lips are lazy and wet against his shoulder blades, as they ride out the come down.

“Fuck.” Castiel whispers against the cool bricks, his legs shaking, threatening to give way beneath him.

“God, I don’t know what it is about you, Cassie,” Balthazar breathes against the skin of Castiel’s back, “I can’t get enough.”

Castiel hums happily, riding another wave of confidence.

“Happy to be of service,” he purrs, finally straightening up and pulling up his boxers and trousers, pretending not to notice the dirty stickiness between his legs. Balthazar does the same, before crowding him against the wall again, claiming his mouth in another ferocious kiss.

“God, what I wouldn’t give to go again,” he huffs with a throaty chuckle against Cas’ lips.

“Your staff will be here in about half an hour to set up,” Castiel giggles, trying to push Balthazar away, which only makes Balthazar press closer.

“Plenty of time,” his lover smirks, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down Castiel’s neck.

“Hey, I got you something for Christmas,” Castiel says, desperate to change the subject. He doesn’t _not_ want to make out like sex-crazed teenagers, but in all honesty, the idea of getting caught is something that terrifies him. And it terrifies him that Balthazar is so turned on by the idea.

“Mhm,” comes the distracted reply, vibrating against the soft skin of his neck.

“Yeah, I got us a table at Ronnie Scott’s on the 2nd. Dean’s playing with his old band, and I thought it’d be nice to go and support him. Make a little date out of it.” Castiel explains, grabbing the other man’s shoulders and pushing him away more fervently now. Balthazar raises his head, frowning in confusion.

“Dean?”

“You remember Dean, my flat mate? You haven’t met him but… I’m sure I’ve told you about him.”

“Oh, the homeless fellow. Yes, I remember.” Balthazar drawls, “Didn’t realise he had a talent.”

Castiel feels his eyes narrow, something in his chest pinching uncomfortably.

“Dean’s incredibly talen-“

“Ah! _There_ you are, Zach! Just there will do, darling, thank you.” Castiel nearly falls to the floor with the sudden loss of Balthazar’s body as a supporting weight. He runs his hands through his hair, frantically trying to tidy up his appearance, though he’s pretty sure the whole room smells of sex, and _shit_ is that his come on the floor? He moves away from it surreptitiously, staring at Balthazar’s back, trying not to feel confused by his response to Dean. Which of course was silly. Balthazar hadn't even  <em>met</em> Dean, so why should he believe that Dean is anything other than Castiel’s flat mate? He shakes his head, feeling a little foolish for getting offended. But, for some reason, that doesn’t stop the tendrils of annoyance clawing at his stomach.  

* * *

 

_Christmas Day_

Dean doesn’t like Balthazar. He doesn’t like Balthazar one bit. But, for some reason Castiel seems infatuated with the smarmy prick. Maybe Dean’s just a little grumpy thanks to his night of next-to-no-sleep, also, by the way, Balthazar’s fault (how can Cas _bear_ to be called ‘Cassie’?) And now Balthazar is leaning against the kitchen counter, shirtless and shameless, watching Dean cook up a fry-up. He and Castiel had both agreed that not only is breakfast their favourite meal, but also the one that deserves to be the most special for Christmas Day. They’ll pig out on chinese take away later since neither of them can be bothered with faffing about with a turkey. This was meant to be _their_ Christmas, and now, it’s _theirs and Balthazar’s_ Christmas, and Dean has no idea _why_ he’s feeling possessive over his friendship with Cas? But, he is. He really is.

“You don’t like me much, do you, Dean?” Balthazar chuckles, biting loudly into an apple that he’s just picked up out of the fruit bowl.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean offers politely, throwing in a tight smile that absolutely doesn’t touch his eyes, “Breakfast?”

If Balthazar picked up on Dean’s sarcasm, he has the good grace not to comment on it, bowing his head in thanks as Dean hands him an over-full plate of grease. Dean looks up at the sound of bare feet padding across the floor, grinning at the sight of Castiel’s bed-head, which this morning looks like a home fit for a whole family of birds. He’s wearing boxers and a scruffy AC/DC t-shirt (Dean's pretty sure that's his, not Cas'), yawning loudly, his eyes still droopy with sleep.

“Morning, sleeping beauty-”

“Cassie, darling, Merry Christmas,” Balthazar’s greeting cuts over the top of Dean’s, his stupid posh voice easily drowning Dean out completely. Castiel smiles sleepily, dragging his feet over to his lover and pressing himself against him, snuggling like a cat.

“Dean, gimme bacon,” he yawns, and Dean can’t stay mad (he sort of is though; he misses the banter, the early morning hugs with Cas. What do you mean two men sharing regular morning hugs is weird? It’s absolutely not.)

“Alright, princess,” Dean chides, sliding a plate over to him, “Merry Christmas,” he adds, before turning the hob and oven off and taking his plate over to the dining table, where he sits alone because all of a sudden Balthazar is licking tomato ketchup from Castiel’s chin and, _swell_ , now they’re making out, their breakfasts totally forgotten. _Damn this open plan room_ , Dean thinks bitterly, stuffing a whole rasher of bacon in his mouth.

* * *

 

Dean’s feeling bashful as a child as he watches Cas gently pull at the wrapping of his Christmas present.

“Oh my God, Cas, just tear it already,” Dean groans, his nerves unable to take much more of the suspense.

“I don’t want to tear it,” Castiel pouts, “the wrapping is so pretty.” He runs his fingers over the paper again, which sports a dozen images of different cats in varying styles of festive headgear. Dean had snorted as soon as he’d seen in it the shop, and had bought a sheet of it immediately, deciding then to wrap up a box for Castiel’s gifts.

“Alright, just hurry it up,” Dean huffs, wringing his hands together tightly. Castiel offers a small smile, but his eyes are glistening with anticipation as he opens the box. Dean can’t bite back the embarrassed groan that escapes him; he can feel his ears heat up as soon as the box is opened. There’s a silence that settles over the room, but Dean doesn’t lift his head from his kneading hands to see why. Then comes the bark of laughter from Castiel, and he risks a peek. Cas is holding the stupid swearing turtle (oh _god_ , what possessed him to buy that for him?!) with a hand over his mouth.

“Dean-“

“God, I know, it’s so dumb-“

“This is amazing! I wonder how many swear words he knows,” he babbles excitedly, turning the box over in his hands. He passes it to Balthazar with some puppy-dog eyes that say _please open this for me pretty please with a cherry on top_ , while he rifles eagerly through the box, turning each gift and grinning from ear to ear.

“Dean, this is…”

“Stupid? I’ll take it all back-“

“Dean, shut up. Get over here,” Cas demands, opening his arms. Dean smiles timidly, leaning over Cas where he sits on the sofa. It’s a little awkward because he doesn’t quite know what to do with his arms; Cas is sitting so close to Balthazar and Dean definitely doesn’t want to touch him, but sort of can’t avoid it. But, Cas pulls him close, so close he has to brace one hand on the arm of the sofa to stop himself falling right on top of him.

“Thank you so much, Dean. They’re perfect,” Cas says, nuzzling his face into Dean’s shoulder.

“They’re totally not,” Dean grumbles back, rubbing small circles into Castiel’s shoulders in response.

“Well, I love them,” Cas says, pulling away, “So, thank you, truly.”

_“Shit for brains!”_ comes a sudden yell, and Dean looks down to Balthazar’s lap to see the swearing turtle waving its little arms profusely, while its head bobs up and down.

“Pardon you,” Balthazar quips, waving his hand in front of the turtle again.

_“Anal probe!”_ comes the squealed response. 

* * *

 

It’s Castiel’s turn to feel sheepish as Dean pulls his gift onto his lap. He holds his breath and waits patiently, his palms slightly clammy with nerves. He casts furtive glances out the corner of his eye at Balthazar beside him, eyes glued to his phone, typing fervently. Cas assumes it’s work, and though he feels bothered, he fights it; he can’t possibly expect Balthazar to understand how important this moment is for the both of them right now.

Dean’s ears are tipped with pink, his fingers dancing nervously around the lovingly wrapped mystery package.

“Is it a pony?” he jokes, feeling decidedly uneasy. Cas doesn’t respond, just touches his tightly joined fingers to his lips, his eyes not leaving Dean; he’s beginning to wonder if the guy’s even blinked in the last minute.

“Cas, chill it with the staring, huh? It’s just a Christmas gift,” Dean shoots another glance at his friend, “no, seriously, you’re making me nervous, quit it.”

“Sorry,” Cas murmurs, shaking his head, and huffing a laugh, “I just really want you to love it,” he adds, quickly falling quiet when Dean’s fingers hook under the cellotape to pry open the paper.

“I’m sure it-“ Dean stops short, the case of his trumpet at this point only half revealed. Castiel guesses Dean would know that case anywhere.

“Wait…” his brow is furrowed, his voice laced with uncertainty.

“Yes, Dean, it is.” Cas answers simply, his face splitting into a grin. He casts his eyes back to Balthazar, in the hopes that they can revel in Dean’s joy together, but finds himself outraged to see that Balthazar is _still looking at his phone._ Castiel grits his teeth. It could just be some really important business; it really isn’t his place to tell Balthazar what he should and shouldn’t be doing at any given time.

Dean pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth as he carefully undoes the package, caressing like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. There’s joy behind the disbelief; Cas can see it dancing in his eyes when he finally looks up.

“Cas, I don’t know what to say-“

“Open it and make sure it’s yours?” Cas replies, laughing breathily, trying not to let on he’s _centimeters_ from tears.

Dean’s hands run over the stickers that cover his case, some of them faded and peeling. Stickers from the County Youth Orchestra he once played for, stickers from competitions, a couple of ‘Fragile’ stickers from airports, all layered a top one another to form a baffling and beautiful collage of Dean’s childhood. He unzips the top of the case with the utmost care; a familiar sight that Castiel has come to associate with him. Dean treats everything (except Christmas lights of course) like it’s made of glass, as if he expects to ruin it by touch alone.

At the sight of his trumpet, Dean’s tears begin to fall freely.

“Cas, this is too mu-“

“Dean, it’s yours. I figured you’d probably want it for the gig,” Cas explains, his lips pursed in a cautious smile. When Dean doesn’t reply, Cas casts his gaze to his lap, crestfallen and feeling utterly embarrassed. He had just gone ahead and presumed that this is what Dean had wanted, how stupid could he be? Maybe it _is_  too much; maybe Dean had made peace with the separation. Maybe he hadn’t even _wanted_ his old trumpet back; perhaps it reminds him of better times that now cause him too much pain to think about. _Stupid, stupid, stup-_

“Thank you so much,” Dean whispers into his hand, finally raising his eyes from the instrument, sitting unassuming in his lap. Castiel’s breath tumbles out of him in his relief, and he barrels over to him, wrapping his arms tightly around Dean’s shoulders, humming happily as Dean slumps against him, his arm snaking around Cas’ back in response.

“You’re so welcome, Dean. Merry Christmas,” he smiles into Dean’s hair, pressing a kiss into it before he’s really thought about what he’s doing. It had felt like the right thing to do at the time, and Dean doesn’t seem to mind. A cursory glance at Balthazar across the room turns this moment a little sour, as he sees that the man is still otherwise engaged with whatever is happening on his phone. Cas is _not_ aggravated by it, he really isn’t.

* * *

“Oh, you just have to try the _Gong Bao Chicken_ , it’s simply to die for,” Balthazar gushes, fingers clacking away noisily on the computer keyboard, as if he hasn’t already forced them to change from their staple restaurant to some wanky posh joint in Kew Gardens. Dean can’t quite bite back the mocking imitation he mouths at the wall. He glances over when he hears Castiel snort, and sees his friend covering his mouth trying to hold back a laugh. That makes Dean grin fiendishly; maybe Cas finds this guy just as much of an insufferable know-it-all as Dean does.

Castiel holds his gaze even after he’s stopped choking back his laughter, his eyes glowing in the light of the tree. Dean’s the first to break the contact, feeling a little scrutinized.

“Sounds good,” Castiel says quietly, sauntering over to the computer chair, resting his chin on Balthazar’s shoulder and threading his arms about his lover’s middle. Suddenly, Dean’s feeling cold despite the warmth of the flat.

Irritatingly delicious Chinese take out devoured, the three of them sprawl on the sofas to soak up the festive telly staples; Wallace and Gromit (obviously), the Queen’s speech (which none of them stand up for, because duh), and The Best of Morcambe and Wise. Dean spends the entirety of the afternoon resolutely _not_ feeling lonely because he has a sofa to himself, whilst Castiel and Balthazar snuggle sickeningly on the other behind him, the sounds of their kisses making the hair on the back of his neck stand up on end uncomfortably. There are some frankly appalling noises coming from Cas back there, and Dean’s blaming his baffling bouts of arousal in response to those little moans and sighs on the fact he’s been single for almost two years, and hasn’t seen any action in almost as long. He and the ugly bulldog-dressed-as-the-queen cushion are becoming quite well acquainted, let’s put it that way.

He’s feeling thoroughly sorry for himself when he hears a shuffle of bodies from behind him. Dean looks up to see Balthazar drag Cas from the sofa, pulling him close. He kisses him deeply, as if Dean isn't even there. Dean’s not going to make a big deal about it, but he does indulge in an over-dramatic eye roll, whilst dragging his legs closer to his chest, because _damn_ that looks enjoyable.

“Right, you, time for _my_ present,” Balthazar murmurs seductively, and Dean’s suddenly sure the smarmy git is doing this on purpose. Castiel blushes like the virgin he isn’t, flashing Dean an apologetic look before he’s dragged to his bedroom by his hands.

“Sex as a present, how _thoughtful_ of you _,_ ” Dean murmurs sarcastically to the empty room, trying desperately to swallow back the choice phrases that are bubbling up in his throat, threatening to spill out of his mouth. If Cas is happy, he’s happy. Ish. He turns the volume right up on the Gavin and Stacey Christmas Special, just as a precaution. 

* * *

 

_January 2 nd: Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club_

 

Ronnie Scott’s is everything Castiel expects it to be, hidden on the dark streets of Soho, surrounded by excellent Chinese restaurants and gay bars. Its doorway is unassuming, as if it isn’t the prestigious home of some of the best live gigs that have ever existed, and inside it’s just as modest; a low ceilinged, cramped space, a small stage surrounded by round tables and booths packed tightly against the walls. If anything, it makes him feel even _more_ pretentious and _alternative_ coming here for his first date with Balthazar, but he’s here to see Dean perform for the most part, and that leaves him buzzing with anticipation.

He cranes his neck to look around at the slowly filling room to see if he can spot Dean from where he stands at the entrance. His housemate has been here all day, rehearsing and catching up with his old college friends. When Dean had left the flat this morning, his face was pale and his hands were shaking. He’d made himself some toast but stood at the counter just staring at it before throwing it into the bin with a noise of irritation. Castiel had made sure to share as much reassurance as he could muster; touching, hugging, encouraging, all in the hope of persuading Dean that this was going to be okay. This was his _thing_ ; this is what he’d trained for four years to do. Castiel’s face relaxes into an easy grin as he sees Dean appear from the door behind the stage. He looks relaxed enough; Castiel can almost hear the hearty laugh that etches itself across his features. That in turn helps still the butterflies in Castiel’s stomach. He’d been feeling sick all day, just wanting so much for this to go well for him.

He and Balthazar are shown to their table, and his date picks a mid-range bottle of red wine before settling down and appraising Castiel with hooded eyes.

“So, darling, I thought, since this is a date, we could get to know one another, what do you say?”

Castiel forces himself to hold Balthazar’s gaze instead of looking away like a blushing bride, “Yeah, alright,” he agrees, smiling.

“There’s a set of questions designed to make people fall in love with one another, shall we see if it works?”

That knocks Castiel for six, and now he _is_ blushing (thank _Christ_ for the dim lighting in this room). He ponders this a moment, wondering just how much he’s comfortable with revealing about himself. He wouldn’t want to make this awkward by refusing to answer Balthazar’s questions… wait, did he say _designed to make people fall in love?!_

“Sure, why the hell not?” he says with more confidence than he feels. His attention is momentarily won from his date in that sinfully form-hugging black suit, by a peppy, short man stepping up to the microphone in the middle of the stage. He taps it a few times, sending several hollow sounding knocks around the room.

“Is this thing on?” he says, smiling when a few people in the front tables cheer in response.

“Well, aren’t you a good looking bunch this evening? My, what a crowd! Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, I am your host for the evening, and on behalf of all the staff and performers, may I welcome to Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club. You can call me Gabe, and boy, have we got a treat lined up for you this evening? I’ve been watching these guys rehearse all day today, and let me warn you, they are _tight_. Here tonight to sing you a whole host of jazz favourites, ladies and gentlemen please, will you join me in welcoming Missouri Moseley and her Band of Brothers!”

Castiel is grinning so hard he fears his face might split in half, as he watches Dean make his way onto the stage along with two other trumpeters, three trombonists, a drummer, a double bassist, a pianist and five saxophonists. The singer, Missouri, comes on last, offering her hand to Gabe who bends and kisses it, wholly exaggerating the movement. He says something to her that makes her laugh, which the mic picks up; it’s a smokey, delicious sort of sound that makes Castiel’s eyes droop involuntarily. Her short, stocky frame is covered in a floor-length gown, dark blue and shimmering with sequins. She looks like a goddess.

“Alrigh’, alrigh’, good evening everyone,” she drawls in a Southern American accent, “My boys and I are gonna play a little number for you called Sophisticated Lady.” Castiel doesn’t know the song but her announcement is met with several crows of enthusiasm from the audience, and he smiles warmly, settling down into his chair, glancing over at Dean, who’s shrugging his shoulders, adjusting his rental-suit jacket, shooting a smirk to one of the trombonists. A plaintive melody starts in the double bass, accompanied by answering gestures from the cymbal. Missouri starts singing, and her voice is intimate and low, her hands cradling the mic close to her lips. Cas can feel himself falling in love with that sound, and his eyes drop closed in response, his chest expanding with a sigh.

_And when nobody is nigh, you cry_.

Suddenly, the band is playing; huge sweeping chords, perfectly tuned, each voice separate and Cas can hear him, he can hear _Dean_ , in amongst that melted chocolate sound of the trombones, the passion of the saxophones in the front row; above all of it, above all the trumpets, there’s Dean’s unmistakable _brightness_. He opens his eyes, feeling infinitely glad that he did, when he sees Dean leaning back, his trumpet screaming right at the top of the texture, and it just sounds so fantastic that Castiel can do nothing but laugh aloud.

“Oh, boys, y’all don’t know what you do to me,” Missouri croons into the microphone, a deep, throaty laugh bubbling from her ample chest. Even Balthazar offers a little cheer, joining in the hype of the rest of the audience.

“Speaking of, I guess you guys wanna meet ‘em, huh?” the crowd answers a cheer, Cas _whoops_ a little shyly. Missouri laughs again, “Alrigh’, alrigh’. Startin’ with my nearest and dearest; tickling them ivories pink as blushin’ brides, it’s Rufus Turner! Walking that bass all the way to heaven, give a warm hand for the adorable Sarah Blake, just look at her!” members of the band were cheering along with the audience, and Castiel feels his heart swell out of his chest at the camaraderie on the stage; Dean's almost glowing.

“On drums, ladies and gentlemen, is the one, the only Garth _Huggy Bear_ Fitzgerald!” Missouri grins wide as the whole band barks a chorus of laughter, leaning over their instruments, pointing at Garth as the skinny man sulks behind the drumkit, hitting the snare drum loudly for emphasis.

“Love ya really, Garth, honey,” Missouri purrs, and Garth all at once is grinning like a maniac, sticking his tongue out at some of the other band members, like the youngest sibling who has decided he’s now mummy’s favourite.

“Now, the saxes,” Missouri turns to her left to face them as she motions with an open hand to each of them in turn, “Seducing us with that sweet, sweet baritone; Jodi _The Sherriff_ Mills; the irresistible tenors, Victor Henriksen, and Andy Gallagher; and singing to the heavens on alto, we got the astounding Pamela Barnes and Mark Campbell. Over to the engine room; our trombones, the downright gorgeous Cassie Robinson and her partner in crime Elias Finch, led by the delectable Benny _The Beast_.” Castiel watches as Dean throws his head back and crows, earning several laughs from band and audience alike. He’d almost entirely forgotten that he's here on a date with Balthazar until he feels a foot brush against his calf. He offers Balthazar a shy smile by way of apology, but his eyes are fixed on the stage once more when Missouri announces the trumpets.

“And finally, last but not least, our astonishing trumpets; the intensely adorable Becky Rosen and Crowley _The King_ , led by the much-missed, nigh-on-irreplaceable Dean Winchester!” Castiel whistles, woops and bangs the table, watching as Dean’s eyes scan the room, settling on him and smiling wide, giving a little wave. Cas feels like a parent at a school concert right now, and he couldn’t be more proud.

* * *

Castiel makes Balthazar wait for the band to take a break before they begin answering these _magic_ questions. Balthazar drains the rest of his wine, smiling tightly and rubbing his foot up Cas’ calf again. He scrolls down his phone a ways, “Alright, here goes nothing. Question one: if you could choose anyone in the world, whom would you have as a dinner guest?”

“Can I have more than one?” Castiel pleads, struggling already.

“I don’t see why not. Let’s say we can have three.” Balthazar smiles, turning his empty wine glass around by the stem.

“Okay… okay. I’d have… John Snow-“

“From Game of Thrones? Good choice.” Balthazar says, winking suggestively.

“No, you- the news reporter, from Channel four,” Cas informs him, not able to keep the look of incredulity off his face.

“Oh, the old guy?” Balthazar laughs as Cas performs one of his signature eye rolls with his whole body.

“He’s not _that_ old! I don’t know… he’s so wise. I’d spend the whole night asking him to explain literally everything to me.”

“Here’s hoping your next choices are a little more adventurous-“

“Hey! Well, for sure, you’re no longer invited,” Castiel teases, giving Balthazar’s leg a gentle kick, “right, who else, who else… oh! Irena Sendler-“

“Who?!”

“The lady who single-handedly saved the lives of 2,500 Jewish children from the holocaust in the Second World War?”

“She’s dead though, right?”

“You never said they had to be alive!” Castiel protests, “I’d want to try and get some of that good-will to rub off... she was so brave, and saved thousands of lives, I can’t believe you haven’t heard of her! And you’d have to have someone like… Beethoven or… Mahler or someone… yeah, let’s go with Mahler, so I can question him for Dean, and maybe I’ll suddenly become a completely swatted-up, do-gooder composer of poignant, heart-breaking symphonies or something,” Cas rambles, nodding resolutely, pleased with his choices.

“So, you’ll be having dinner with a bunch of dead people?”

“John Snow isn’t dead!”

“He’s as good as,” Balthazar shrugs, smirking when Castiel fakes a sulk.

“Alright, whom will _you_ be having dinner with?” Cas questions mockingly, pouring the remainder of the wine into their glasses.

“That’s easy, I’d have Hugh Grant, Colin Firth and Hugh Laurie-“

“They’re good choices-“

“So we can engage in possibly the hottest foursome the world has ever seen.”

“It’s a _dinner party_ , Balthazar!”

“You’re telling me if the two Hughs and Colin were in the same room as you, you would insist on having fucking _dinner_?”

Castiel blushes.

“That’s what I thought.”

* * *

 

“Alright, number eleven: Tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible in four minutes.”

Castiel squirms uncomfortably in his seat, “Alright, but can you go first?”

“Sure. You got the timer ready?” Castiel unlocks his phone with a swipe, and sets the timer, nodding with a warm smile.

“On your marks, get set, go! Okay, I was born in Oxford, one of four boys; middle child, so obviously I was bound to be the rebel. My father wanted me to be a doctor, like my brother Michael, but I went out and got drunk instead; partied as much as I possibly could. If there was a party, I was there, convincing the boys on the football team to sneak behind a closed door with me,” he sighs, smiling, “good times.

Let’s see… I found my passion for art at a very young age: it made me feel edgy, you know? Sort of _cool._ I’d invent things to be angsty about, as all teenagers do, but in all honesty, I had a very comfortable up bringing. Anyway, after completing my A-Levels, completely flunking them of course, I just… sort of bummed off my parents for a while, I worked in a café during the day and painted by night. I met a man called… you know, I genuinely don’t remember his name? Let’s say his name was José. I was completely in love with him though, gosh, he was so handsome. He opened me up sexually, taught me everything I know. We all have one ex like that, don’t we? I had great fun pissing off my parents with him.

Anyway, I kept painting, trying to get my work into galleries and such. I got spotted by an owner of a rather prestigious set of galleries, and he wanted to become my patron. Who was I to resist? He gave me enough money to set up my studio, and the rest is history I guess. Moved out of my parent’s house when I’d made a little money from my paintings; I started a mini-series online, taking commissions. I did some larger works with musical instruments, which I’m sure, if Dean didn’t hate me so much, he’d love to see-“

“He doesn’t hate you, how many times? You’ve got one more minute,”

“And then, I approached the well-renowned _Bradbury & Co _to design me an exhibition space in order to entice some rich wankers to buy my more expensive works, and found a rather dashing, charming young man, who was so adorably flustered by my presence, I just had to have him. I’ve been crazy about him ever since.”

“Anything else? You’ve got 20 more seconds,” Castiel raises his eyebrows. Balthazar leans over the table, his lips right by Castiel’s ear, as he whispers,

“He’s got a great ass too.” Castiel can’t help but rise out of his chair to crash his lips against his dates’, both of them grinning into the kiss.

* * *

 

“Alright, your turn. Ready? Off you go.” Castiel watches Balthazar’s slender finger press the button, watches the numbers scroll steadily, and he takes a deep breath to steady himself; this is a pretty big deal for him.

“Umm… okay. Okay. I was born in Faversham, in Kent, an only child. I was a pretty happy child, and got on with my parents very well indeed; we used to call ourselves the three muskateers. Once I got to school, I was extensively bullied because I was small, because I liked classical music, because I was shy… I don’t really know. Anyway… kids can be vicious can’t they? I used to eat my lunch in the toilets… and spent a lot of my time alone or in the company of the teachers,”

“Does this story get happy at some point?” Balthazar says, offering his hand. Castiel huffs, sighing deeply, because no… no, not for a while. He barrels on, because now he’s started sharing this with Balthazar, he doesn’t want to stop. He hasn’t shared any of this with anybody, not even Dean. He threads his fingers tightly through Balthazar’s in order to gain some sort of grounding.

“Naturally, I did very well at school because I had no friends to distract me from my work… the bullying continued through secondary school, and in fact, only worsened. People assumed I was gay, and picked on me endlessly about it because I had shown no interest in the girls in our class, so I purposely dated a few when I was about 15 or 16. There was Jo; she was gorgeous, blonde, fiery and passionate, but she soon dumped me when I… well, when I couldn’t give her much more than kissing and the odd fumble under the skirt.

And then there was Meg, who started out all right in hindsight. I suppose she was the ex that taught me everything; I actually managed to have sex with her a couple of times, but it was rarely very satisfying for me. Or her… she wasn’t very nice in the end. Anyway, I got into York University, and moved up there when I turned eighteen, thankful to get away from Kent, but of course, terribly sad to say goodbye to my parents. We’d grown apart a lot during my school years; I was suffering a lot but I didn’t open up to them, opting to shut myself away from them instead. The line is so dead between us now that we haven’t spoken save for a card on my birthday since I graduated… God… that’s awful isn’t it?”

Balthazar squeezes his hand, and Castiel nods, determined to continue,

“So… I went to York, and studied Interior Design, of course. I loved every second of it. At University, nobody judged me for being shy or… possibly gay or any of it. Sure, I was nervous as hell, but I met Anna within the first few days; she was in my flat in halls, and we just… we clicked, and she quickly became my best, and pretty much only friend I’ve ever had. With her came others, and then came Alfie… he was this adorable English Lit student, and we sort of fell hopelessly in love with one another. We experimented together; were each other’s first experiences in the _gay_ world, and were practically as inseparable as Anna and I for two and a half years. But, we grew into different people, and we just… grew apart I guess. It happens. I still had Anna though, and we graduated together and it was the happiest day of my life; my parents were there, and seemed proud of me. Life was good. And, um. Yeah, and then a few weeks later… Anna… she, um. She died in a car accident. She was… she was going to come travelling with me for the summer to earn some money… we were going to move to London together… God. She’d _just graduated._ And for what?” Castiel clears his throat, not wanting to look up at Balthazar right now, “And um… yeah, I moved in with one of my University friends down here in London, and got myself an internship at _Bradbury & Co,_ and worked my way up to a Designer… got my flat… met Dean, asked him to move in with me… yeah. That’s… that’s it. That’s the whole saga.”

He feels hopelessly naked when he looks up again, nerve endings raw and exposed. Balthazar’s hand is warm on his, and when he lifts it to press his lips against Cas’ knuckles, he has to choke back a sob, because there’s no way he’s crying on a date.

“I think the band’s coming back,” Balthazar murmurs against the skin of his knuckles, and Cas smiles warmly at him, gulping a large swallow of wine to try and ease the lump in his throat. 

* * *

 

Dean had felt nervous for the last two weeks about this gig, but now it was here, and they’d performed their first set, he finds he's just itching to get back under those lights again. He can hardly keep his trumpet away from his lips; his mind firing musical figurations through him quicker than he can find them on the instrument, but he experiments as much as he can keep up. He has a couple of solo slots in this next set; one be-bop which would be easy, but the other is another blues-y number with Missouri and that leaves him feeling a little too exposed for comfort. Benny had agreed to take some of the slot when Dean had begged for the third time, but it still doesn’t ease his nerves much. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and pulls his trumpet away, turning into the touch to find Benny grinning at him,

“You’re doin’ so good, brother, how’s it feel?”

“Just like I remember it feeling; addictive, intense… it’s slowly coming back,” Dean nods, laughing a little when Benny holds his arms, and trombone, above his head in triumph,

“You look _good_ up there, man,” he laughs.

“You can’t even _see_ me, Benny,” Dean says, tilting his head to the side; a habit he’s picked up from Cas, he thinks fondly.

“I _sense_ you, man,” Benny says, in a mocking seriousness that has Dean laughing all over again.

“Naw, for real though, it’s good to see you,” he recovers, squeezing Dean’s shoulder. Dean nods slowly, casting his eyes about the room, which is filled with old familiar faces, and honestly, it’s good to be back. He raises his hand to Benny’s shoulder, patting a couple of times,

“Likewise, man. Let’s stay in contact this time, huh?”

“You bet,” Benny grins.

* * *

 

By the end of the gig, Castiel and Balthazar have gone through three bottles of wine between them, and have stood up and danced, fast and slow to the latter half of the third set, having managed to go through all of the questions. Castiel can’t tell if the experiment worked or not, since both of them ended up far too intoxicated to even _try_ and look into one another’s eyes for four seconds, let alone the recommended four minutes. He does feel closer to Balthazar though, and from the way his date is struggling to keep his hands to himself, Balthazar's  feeling the same. Now they stand by the stage door, waiting for Dean to appear. Balthazar stands pressed against Cas’ back, his arms wrapped tightly around his middle, his lips pressing little promises against Castiel’s neck. Cas snuggles back into him, feeling truly _loved_ , like he always does when he was around Balthazar. He wonders if Balthazar maybe _does_  love him? Does he love Balthazar? He certainly feels very much in _like_ with him, and Balthazar wanting to ask him questions designed to make people _fall in love_ can’t have been a blasé move-

His thoughts are interrupted by the loss of Balthazar’s arms, and he opens his eyes, not even realizing they’d closed, to see Dean appear, wrapped tightly in one of Castiel’s coats. The band members slowly spill out of the doors, each stopping to pat Dean on the shoulder, or pull him into a hug. Benny hands an envelope to Dean and is gone with a one-armed hug and a salute.

“Dean!” Cas cries as Dean approaches them, opening his arms and throwing them about his shoulders. “Oh my god, Dean, that was incredible, _you_ were incredible!” he gushes, as Dean pulls away from the hug, a huge grin adorning his freckled face, pink from the cold of the February night.

“You really enjoyed it?” he asked, offering a small wave to Balthazar as he saunters closer, draping an arm loosely about Castiel’s waist.

“Enjoyed it? I hope I die before I hear anything else, Dean. It was absolutely amazing!” Dean’s hand is on him then, rubbing up and down his arm, but his eyes are on Balthazar as he says,

“How much has this one had to drink?” with humour tingeing his voice.

“Enough,” Balthazar jokes back, pulling Castiel closer to his side, “Come on, darling, let’s get you home,” he says, placing a lingering kiss to his cheek. Castiel swats him away jokingly, moving to link his arms through Balthazar’s and Dean’s, babbling happily all the way down the narrow street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That took SO LONG TO WRITE. I'm so sorry for the delay - I wanted it to be just as successful as the first part, and there were a lot of scenes I wanted to write.  
> Thank you, as always, for your patience, and do let me know what you thought in the comments below :)!
> 
> And as a bonus, here is a beautiful picture of our two knuckleheads having a wee cuddle because bed-hair and mhmm. Thanks again to PurgatoryJar! <333


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's Day is a genuine disaster, until it's not.
> 
> (Also, ew there's... ew, there's some smut in my fluff, who put that there?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to take this opportunity to thank my darling baby girl Harleygwyn, who managed to sort through piles and piles of rubbish drafts I sent her and show me the light at the end of this fic! Thank you, sweetie, you're a true doll <33333

** Make Yourself at Home **

** Part III **

_Valentine’s Day_

 

Castiel fiddles with the edge of the cling film, shielding his stupid heart-shaped cookies from the cold, dirty air of the bus. Yup, he really is transporting hand made, heart-shaped cookies to Balthazar’s studio in the middle of rush hour. His _beau_ is meant to come over tonight, but Castiel just can’t wait until then to see him. He knows that Dean thinks he’s a lovesick fool, and maybe he is, but he simply can’t find it within himself to care. Balthazar is a drug to him; he _needs_ him. When Castiel is wrapped up in his arms, it’s easier to breathe. And when they fall into bed, gasping and laughing breathlessly against bare skin, Castiel swears he can trace the stars behind his eyelids.

They haven’t made themselves official yet, but Cas finds it easy to pretend like that doesn’t bother him. He’s also absolutely _fine_ with the fact that most of the texts on his phone under Balthazar’s name are sent from Cas. Often there are at least five or six blue bubbles before a grey one appears on the screen. But, that’s beside the point; it’s beyond moot. What he and Balthazar have is a committed, adult relationship, and it certainly doesn’t need a label, or regular texts, to be real. He’s not some teenage brat anymore; he doesn’t _need_ Balthazar to text him to know that he cares. To know that he thinks about Cas just as much as Cas thinks about him. Which, by the way, is all the time.

He sighs, leaning his head against the bus window as it trundles past his office. He sits up a little straighter, craning his neck to look over the other side of the road to spot where he’d first met Dean. He smiles warmly as he cradles that memory within his mind, replaying their easy banter, the way the rain hadn’t even bothered them that day. He sighs happily, pressing the _stop_ button, holding the cookies close to his chest as he makes for the door.

The door to Balthazar’s studio is always open; just another testament to the man’s alarming kink for voyeurism. Castiel has been underneath Balthazar in this very room more times than he can remember, and each time had carried the risk of someone just walking on in to have a nosey around.

“Babe?” he calls as he enters the room, still bathed in natural light, given it’s only 12. He assumes Balthazar is on a loo break when he doesn’t get an immediate response, so he takes a walk amongst the easels. There are several canvases laid out next to one another, propped against the window, all covered in varying shades of blue. Castiel feels drawn to them, and wants, desperately to run his fingers over the sharp edges of dried paint, but he’s worried he’ll ruin it, so he resists.

He remembers with sudden clarity, something that Balthazar had told him just last week, as they lay facing one another, trailing hands gently over each other’s skin in a post-coitus haze.

_“I just can’t stop painting blue, Cassie. My brushes just want to cover everything with it. Like your eyes. I can’t stop. Maybe it’s so that I don’t miss them so much when I can’t see them. Yeah, maybe that’s it.”_

It makes Castiel blush even now; it's possibly one of the most romantic things anyone has _ever_ said to him. His stomach flutters nervously in response. He places the plate of cookies delicately down on an empty section of the workbench that takes up the majority of the room. He runs his fingers along the wooden tops of the paintbrushes, hundreds of them, sticking up like bouquets of flowers, walking delicately around the table, not wanting to disturb the unshakeable stillness that has fallen upon the place.

After about five minutes of patiently waiting, Castiel begins to wonder, but definitely not worry. He absolutely _doesn’t_ do that. Before he knows what he’s doing, his feet are taking him towards the ladder that leads up to the loft; the loft that has seen Balthazar make love to him half a hundred times. He balances the plate of cookies in one hand, using the other to help him climb up, telling himself he’s going up there to strip and position himself seductively on the mattress. _Happy Valentine’s Day, Darling,_ he’ll purr, and Balthazar will growl and rush over to claim him. He hears a shift against the floor above him, and he smiles,

“I _knew_ you were up here, why didn’t you call down? Are you thoroughly indece-“ the plate falls from his hand and topples all the way down the ladder to smash upon the floor; broken hearts littering the wooden slats below.

“What?” he whispers, as he heaves himself to his feet in the loft, taking in the scene in front of him. Balthazar’s there, for sure. And, yup, he _is_ thoroughly indecent. He’s also balls-deep inside _somebody else._ And Castiel can’t speak, he can’t. He’s sweating, but he feels cold, frozen all over on the inside. The other person, currently straddling his lover turns around and Castiel groans, throwing his hands in the air.

“Adam? Seriously, Balthazar, _seriously_?” he shouts. Adam _finally_ has the good graces to clamber gracefully off the mattress, covering his dignity with his hands, and even has the decency to look ashamed. The wet slap of Balthazar’s dick against his stomach makes Castiel feel physically sick, especially when he sees that the bastard is _still hard_. Like he’s finally getting what he wanted all along: to get caught.

“Oh come on, Cassie, darling. Don’t be like that,” he chides, reaching out for him.

“No, sorry, what _exactly_ is going on here? Why is _he_ here?!” Castiel yells, pointing a furious finger at Adam, who is frantically trying to pull his clothes back on.

“It’s not what you thin-“

“Not what I think?!” Castiel roars, approaching the bed, towering over Balthazar, his stomach rolling and tumbling as if perched atop a rough sea, “Oh, my mistake; kindly tell me then, _darling_ , what _were_ you both doing, naked and in bed? See, from the ladder, it looked very much like you were _fucking someone else._ ”

“Cassie, sweetheart, come on. Let me get some clothes on and we can talk about this, huh?” Balthazar says, his voice patronising, like Castiel is some sort of child caught in the midst of a sulk over a broken crayon, or the denial of a treat from the ice-cream truck. Castiel swallows down the bile burning through his throat as he watches Balthazar pull off the condom and toss it to the floor. Ribbed. _For her pleasure_ , his brain adds uselessly.

“Talk?” Castiel laughs bitterly, “Tell me, what _exactly_ is there to talk about? Are you going to tell me how you tricked this _boy_ into your bed? How you persuaded him to keep quiet while you kept fucking him because your _boyfriend just came in downstairs?_ Save it, you sanctimonious arse,” he spits, spinning on his heels and making for the ladder again.

“Come on, Cassie, where are you going? You _know_ we were never exclusive.” Right there, that’s the moment when Castiel feels something within him snap, and he bites back the tears; whether they come from hurt or anger or a sickening mixture of both, he can’t afford to let Balthazar see him shed them.

“Sorry? We were never fucking exclusive?” His voice is shaking, his fists balling tightly by his sides. Adam is awkwardly edging towards the ladder, making a quick escape, but Castiel pays him no mind. His eyes burn right into Balthazar’s; fancies that maybe, just maybe, he can burn away the lies to get at the truth.

“That’s right, Cassie, we never had _the talk_. You knew our agreement.” Balthazar says calmly, getting up and stretching before pulling on some clean pants. As if there isn’t someone standing in front of him demanding answers as to why their heart is currently breaking.

“Agreement?” he huffs, but there’s no amusement in it.

“I was never in for a serious relationship, darling, surely I told you that?” he says, pulling a cigarette out of the carton sat atop the chest of draws and lighting it with a match.

“Right, yeah, that’s why I’m fucking pissed right now, because I knew of our agreement?” He shoves both hands into his hair, tugging roughly.

Balthazar simply shrugs, dragging long and slow on his cigarette.

“Well, now you know.”

Castiel laughs then, and it’s all brittle, like any second it’s going to break.

“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say to me?” His mind is racing with questions, demands, insults, but Cas can’t seem to keep up with any of them. The pain wrenching his guts settles over him like a fog and he’s groping blindly at anything that vaguely resembles _sense._ God, he's such a _fool._

“What would you like me to say, Cassie? I enjoy our time together, I do. I thoroughly enjoy your body, especially when you give it so easily-“

“You sick fuck,” Castiel grinds out between gritted teeth.

“Come on, darling, you don’t mean that-“

“No, no I really do. You… waltz into my life, and you… you give me _just enough_ to believe that what we have here is more than sex. You spent _Christmas_ with me-“

“Well, only because I stayed the night on Christmas Eve-“

“You came to Dean’s gig with me, held my hand, shared secrets with me, asked me questions that are meant to make people _fall in fucking love._ I mean, what was I meant to get from that?”

“Well, it was a _date._ And, I wanted to tell you those things. It doesn’t _mean anything-“_

“I shared things with you that I haven’t shared with _anyone_ , Balthazar! It was a really important night for me. That means nothing does it? Do _I_ mean nothing?”

Balthazar’s only response seems to be a shrug. And that only serves to fan the flames. How can he mean that? After everything they’ve shared?

“Don’t just stand there and fucking shrug, you prick, _explain yourself!_ ”

“Look, Cassie, it’s not my fault if you misunderstood what we had between us-“

“ _Misunderstood?_ Oh, I see, because you telling me that you can’t get enough of me, telling me that you can’t stop painting blue because of my eyes, visiting me at work because you missed me, those are just normal _fuck buddy_ things to do, are they? Oh, my mistake.”

“Those things were all true, Cassie, of course they were, but, I fear you may have just taken them a little more to heart than I had intended, and that’s not my fault.”

“No, no don’t you say this isn’t your fault. Don’t you _dare._ When a person says that you’ve hurt them, you don’t _get_ to decide that you didn’t!” Tears are rolling freely down Castiel’s burning cheeks, but he can’t find it within himself to care. His insides are wound tight like a coil, and he’s half way between vomiting and punching Balthazar into a bloody pulp.

“Cassie, come on, I didn’t mean-“

“It’s _Cas_ alright? It’s fucking…” he hiccups, his voice suddenly quiet, “it’s fucking Cas.” He spins on his heels and makes a swift exit, pointedly ignoring Balthazar’s voice rising behind him. He slams the front door at least five times before collapsing in on himself outside it. _Such a fucking fool._

 

* * *

 

Dean is handing over a caramel latte to a pretty young lady when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. The lady is the last in a long queue, so he allows himself to quickly glance at his phone, to see a message from Cas:

 

_Hey, I know you’re working right now, but… I need you. Can I call you?_

He glances up, catching the dark, kind eyes of his co-worker Kevin,

“Hey, Kev, I need to make a call real quick, is that alright?”

Kevin glances at the clock, the corners of his mouth turned down,

“Ah, your shift’s almost over, man, go home, I got this covered.” He smiles, turning back to washing up some mugs.

“You sure? I can stay until the hour’s up-“

“Dean, go. It’s cool. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He dismisses Dean with a non-committal wave of his hand in Dean’s general direction.

“Okay, thanks man, I’ll make it up to you!” he shouts over the counter, already halfway out of the door, with his phone calling Cas. As soon as he hears the ringing stop on the other line, he’s asking questions,

“Cas? Talk to me, where are you? What’s happened?”

But all he hears on the other end is sniffling, and Dean’s panic lessens by about 0.2%.

“Cas?” he tries again, forcing his voice to assume a slightly calmer lilt.

“Dean, you were right. You were right about him.” He says, his voice pitched slightly higher than usual, teetering on the edge of breaking.

“Oh, Cas… Where are you?”

“’m at the flat.” He answers, his voice hushed.

“Okay, I’m on my way.” Dean reassures sincerely, hanging up and breaking into a jog.

 

* * *

 

He’s barely through the door when he feels Cas’ arms encircle his shoulders, pulling desperately at his shirt.

“Hey, _hey_ ,” Dean coos, shedding his coat and letting it pool about his feet. He toes off his shoes and drops his keys on the floor, which hit the floorboards with a heavy thud. When he feels Castiel’s shoulders start to shake, he wraps his arms tightly around his waist, pulling him in close.

“Hey, Cas, shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here,” he babbles quietly, tracing soothing lines up and down Cas’ back. He glances over Castiel’s shoulder to see bunched up tissues littering the floor. They’re literally everywhere. He pulls Castiel even closer to him before pulling away to look at him. There’s a wet patch on his shirt, which Castiel laughs wetly at, pawing at it as if he can rub it away.

“Cas, what happened?” Dean says quietly, dipping his head to try and catch his friend’s eyes. Castiel sniffs before swallowing heavily and raising his eyes to Dean’s. They’re red and puffy, and still leaking a steady stream of tears.

“Adam,” he scoffs, turning around and pulling another tissue out of the box in his hand as he walks into his bedroom.

“What?” Dean shouts after him, closing the door before following his friend, “Adam? The _intern?_ ”

“Yup.” Castiel nods, laughing resentfully, blowing his nose before tossing the tissue over his shoulder. He’s pacing.

“I turn up at his studio, clutching those cookies like a prize idiot-“

“Did the cookies survive?” Dean pouts, and Castiel huffs, at least a little amused.

“No. No, they took a tumble down the ladder when I saw Balthazar balls deep inside _Adam the Intern_.”

Dean winces at the flatness of Castiel’s voice. He moves further into the room to sit on the bed, watching his friend pace up and down like a caged bear.

“You know what he said? He said that I’d _misunderstood our agreement_ ” he frames these words with angry finger quotations, “that we weren’t _exclusive_ and that it wasn’t his fault if I’d taken all of those things he’d said to me _more to heart than he’d intended_ ,” he vents, another tissue tossed over his shoulder.

Dean sucks in a surprised breath, “What a knob.” He mutters. He knows that that’s the understatement of the century. Dean’s furious, but he bites his lip and settles for bunching his fists tightly in his lap: this is about Cas right now, not about him. But, _God_ , does he want to hit that pretentious twat.

The bed sinks as Castiel flops onto it, sobbing openly again,

“I just don’t understand what I did wrong-“

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Cas.” Dean asserts sternly. There’s no way he’s going to let Cas get away with thinking this is in any way his fault. Not for a second.

“What’s so great about _Adam_ anyway? He’s like… 12.” Cas whines, throwing his arm over his eyes. Dean shuffles on the bed so that he’s sat right beside his weeping friend, reaching out to rub his shoulder soothingly.

“Balthazar is the prize idiot, Cas,” he says quietly. Cas only scoffs in response, sitting up and rubbing roughly at his eyes.

“No, he is. Who in their right mind would give _you_ up?” He winces, his voice sounding a little insincere. He really does mean it though; Castiel is, hands down, the best person Dean’s ever met, and he just _knew_ Balthazar couldn’t be bothered to see that. He's known it from the start.  He wishes now he hadn't been right.

“You’re just saying that,” Castiel pouts, smiling a little despite himself.

“I’m not! Cas, you’re great! You’re generous and kind, and you make excellent cookies, you’re handsome too-“

“You think I’m handsome?” Castiel laughs through his tears.

“Yeah, sure! You’re a hottie, Cas!” Dean grins, squeezing his friend’s shoulder tightly. Castiel sighs dramatically, pulling another tissue out of the box and blowing his nose, throwing it against the wall before his face crumples up again, fresh tears travelling the well-marked tracks down his cheeks. He flops back down on the bed, and this time Dean lies down too, running his hand up and down Cas’ arm in an attempt to calm him down.

“Oh Dean, what’s wrong with me?” he wails. Dean laughs a little, because, honestly? _Not a goddamn thing_. They lie facing one another, and Dean reaches up to catch one of Castiel’s tears before it runs into his other eye, then tucks his hair behind his ear. He wants nothing more than to take his friend’s pain away, doesn’t even have to think twice about performing these somewhat intimate acts; if his friend is hurt, he’s going to try everything he can to comfort him.

“Nothing’s wrong with you, Cas.”

“I’m difficult.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m too clingy and desperate.”

“Cas, stop it.”

“I’m going to die alone.”

“What makes you say that?” Dean snorts, running the back of his hand across Cas’ cheek to catch another tear.

“I’m nearly 40!” He cries.

“Cas… you’re 24.”

“It’s out there though! Somewhere! Someday I’m going to be 40 and nobody will want to marry me!” Cas exclaims, throwing his arms wide. Dean catches them, catching his friend’s attention.

“Listen, if you’re 40 and nobody wants to marry you? _I’ll_ marry you myself, how about that?” Dean doesn’t have time to question his promise; in all fairness, he can’t really see _any_ downside to being married to Cas if that means just more of what they have already; watching trashy TV, eating far too many saturated fats, early morning cuddles in the kitchen...

Castiel laughs brokenly, leaning forward and pressing his head to Dean’s chest,

“Thanks, Dean,” he says quietly, bunching the front of Dean’s shirt to wipe his face.

“Ah, don’t worry about it, I’m sure this isn’t one of your favourites anyway.” Dean jokes fondly, wrapping his arms about Castiel and burying his face in his soft, dark hair. Castiel starts breathing in deeply through his nose, letting it noisily out of his mouth, his shoulders heaving with the effort. Dean joins him in a comic imitation, which earns him another little chuckle. He squeezes Castiel just a little tighter, before Castiel leans back to look at Dean.

“Better?” Dean whispers, rubbing up and down Cas’ back. His friend sighs again, rubbing his nose and sniffing before smiling,

“Yeah, a little,” he says, wiping his cheeks, sitting up again and smiling down at Dean.

“Good. What say you to an afternoon spent watching shit telly under a duvet? I think I fancy some Maury… maybe some Judge Judy? You wait here, I’ll go make us some tea,” Dean smiles, patting Castiel’s knee before standing.

“Wait, Dean?” Castiel’s voice is quiet and unsure, but he’s holding onto Dean’s wrist with steady conviction.

“Yeah?”

“Will you… can you just hold me a little longer?” Cas’ nose is red, his eyes puffy, and when he looks up at Dean, any resolve he’d had to leave the room falls away in an instant.

“Of course, Cas. Anything you need.” He smiles, wrapping his arms around his friend once again.

The angle is a little awkward, given that they’re both sitting on the edge of the bed, but Castiel seems to take comfort in it all the same. Dean hums tunelessly, swaying Cas from side to side, and feels Cas snuggling into him, settling his head under Dean’s chin. Dean feels his hand move into Castiel’s hair before he’s told it to, mostly to smooth it away from tickling his nose, but he starts to massage gently when he feels Castiel relax at his touch. His eyes begin drooping closed, and, without thinking too much about it, he presses his lips to Cas’ hair, before settling his head back against his friend’s.

_Why don’t we do this more often? This is nice,_ he thinks to himself, sighing deeply. He feels Cas shift against him, and feels lips against his cheek. He doesn’t open his eyes, but does hum softly, because he’s sort of forgotten what’s happening, and who he’s with, and where he is; he’s lost in the sensations of Castiel’s hair between his fingers, brushing against his cheek, the warmth of Castiel’s arms wrapped tightly around his back.

He feels lips on his own before he even registers that he’s being kissed. He frowns and opens his eyes, but the only thing he can see is the dark fan of Castiel’s eyelashes against blushed cheeks, still wet with tears. He makes a little noise of surprise, but doesn’t break away. His mind feels a little foggy, but every synapse within him is firing at a thousand paces a second, and he wants more. He feels Castiel move away, but he follows, pulling him close and returning the kiss.

They both breathe deeply through their noses, as if it’s their first breath. He hears Castiel’s quiet moan, and it only encourages him. Cas’ fingers clench fistfuls of Dean’s t-shirt, shedding it quickly. Dean’s breathing heavily, his fingers shaking as he makes to undo the buttons on Castiel’s shirt. He only gets half-way before Cas stands to tug it over his head. He gets a little stuck, his arms sticking out above him at an awkward angle and Dean moves to help him out of it, trying not to laugh too hard, but when he hears Castiel giggling, he can’t help himself. When Castiel finally breaks free, Dean’s hands are on him, smoothing his hair away from his face, and kissing him more fervently.

_What am I doing? What am I doing?!_

Cas’ body surges against his, and the delightful slide of his soft, warm skin against Dean’s makes him shiver.

“Dean,” he’s whispering between kisses, “Dean, please.”

_Yes, Cas, yes. Anything you want. Anything,_ Dean’s mind babbles in a drunken response. He can’t think straight; Castiel’s lips are soft beneath his, and the little whimpers coming out of him are making Dean’s heart clench painfully. He wants to undo everything, he wants to rebuild his friend from the ground up, make him better, heal him, fix him. He’ll do whatever Castiel needs him to do, he _has to._

_Wait. Cas… this is Cas kissing him right now._

“Wait a sec,” he pulls back suddenly, his hands tangled in Cas’ hair. Castiel’s lips are glistening and pink, his puffy eyes hooded.

“Cas, are we really doing thi-mph” Castiel crashes his lips against Dean’s again in an effort to silence him, but Dean reluctantly pulls away once more.

“Cas, stop. Are you sure?”

Castiel answers by closing the distance between them again, nodding slowly, and Dean tries not to frown too hard at the obvious deflection. His friend is backing up, lying down on the bed, dragging Dean with him, the slow, languid drag of his lips enough to convince Dean to give in to what he wants. He definitely _loves_ Cas, in that he would do anything for the guy, the way you love a friend who’s so dear to you, you don’t even think twice when they ask for something.

If he wants Dean to just _be with him_ right now, then Dean’s going to do just that, if just to see him smiling again. He feels Cas shuffle up the bed to settle between the pillows, spreading his legs and wrapping them around Dean’s hips. Dean rolls his chest against Cas’, worshipping his mouth with his own, deciding to follow his heart instead of his head for once. He can consider the aftermath on their friendship later, he reasons.

* * *

Castiel’s whole body thrums with the steady prayer of Dean’s name. His skin burns with need, and he simply can’t figure out what’s gotten into him, but he can’t stop himself. He _needs_ Dean right now, and he simply can’t muster the energy to fight that urge. He needs Dean to make him feel like he’s worth something, to help put him back together again. He trusts that Dean can do that for him; he also trusts that Dean wants this… he really hopes he does anyway, because now that he’s kissed Dean, he doesn’t ever want to stop.

Love, or something a lot like it, crashes through him like a flood; this beautiful man in his arms, giving him everything just because he’d asked him to. Dean is moaning above him now, nipping at his bottom lip, lapping at it with his tongue to soothe, and Castiel cradles his face in his hands. This precious man, this _righteous_ man. Dean is good. Dean is pure and good. Dean’s goodness can banish any mark of Balthazar, can cleanse him from that hideous mess.

Dean’s lips drag down his torso, followed quickly by clever fingers, digging and caressing, and Castiel feels like he’s floating on air. He tangles his fingers in the short tufts of Dean’s hair for something to anchor him, but Dean just keeps going down, and then he’s mouthing the outline of Castiel through his jeans and everything goes blank.

* * *

 

Dean works hard to try and keep his brain above water, but he’s having a really hard time with that. Every sense is overridden by Cas; the feeling of him hot and heavy against Dean’s tongue, the scrape of his fingers in Dean’s hair, the sound of his delicate gasps, the musky-hot smell of him, yards of pale skin flushed a sinful shade of pink. He experiments; brushing a fingertip against Castiel’s that velvety skin just under his balls and pressing gently, moaning around the head Cas’ cock at the sound that rips itself from between those slightly parted lips. He feels Cas’ hips drag upwards, and Dean holds perfectly still, letting Cas show him what he needs with his body. Cas presses down against the tip of Dean’s finger, and Dean recognises the feel of that tensed ring of muscle. He gently strokes over it, pulling off of Cas’ cock and using his free hand to spread Cas’ cheeks wider.

“Dean,” Cas hisses, as Dean lets out a hot breath against Cas’ balls, his tongue laving at the burning hot skin of his perineum.

“Oh, god, Dean, _please,_ ” Cas begs, his hands coming down to spread himself for Dean, a sight which tears a primal groan from Dean’s chest, before he dives, tongue-first to devour this most precious of gifts, any doubts completely banished from his mind.

Before Dean knows what’s up, down, back or front, he’s moving inside his flat mate, who lies flushed and panting beneath him. Despite the fire that’s raging within him, trying to force his hips to piston unforgivingly into that tight heat, he forces himself to _cherish_. He’s here to fix Cas, not break him further.

He’s only ever had sex with one man before, and that was a drunken night in college; a shame-filled memory, fuzzy with red wine and darkness (they had opted to keep the lights off.) That couldn’t be further from what he’s currently experiencing. There’s soft, afternoon light streaming through the window, and he and Cas are pressed together, sober, face-to-face, in every way they can manage. The room is filled with the gentle sound of skin against skin, the delicate gasps, the quiet moans, the pleasant sound of loving kisses placed anywhere and everywhere. Dean’s arms frame Castiel’s face, his fingers tangled once more in those sinfully thick locks, and Cas’ arms are wrapped tightly about Dean’s shoulders, his legs about his waist, his mouth at his ear, breathing _I need you, Dean_ ’s and _Please, don’t stop_ ’s into it like a prayer.

Dean moves slowly, drinking in Cas’ face, as it switches between ecstasy, impatience, disbelief, and back to ecstasy. He peppers Cas’ face with kisses, pressing more than half a hundred against those beautiful lips, permanently parted with breathy moans, which Dean swallows hungrily. Cas reaches up, threading his fingers through Dean’s, arching his back into Dean’s chest. Dean presses his and Cas’ hands to the mattress, squeezing tightly around his friend’s fingers in a silent plea of _I’ve got you, it’s all right, I’ve got you._ Cas clings on just as hard, pressing fervent kisses to the cut of Dean’s jaw, his breath hot against his skin.

Suddenly he’s pressing his body up, directing Dean onto his back. The move is strangely graceful, as if their bodies already know how to respond to one another. Dean lets out a pleased sigh as he runs his hands, palms flat against the smooth skin of Castiel’s stomach, tracing the lines of his hip bones, the join of his hip to his thigh. His hands mirror Dean’s, sending a delicious shudder coursing throughout Dean’s body. He’s never let himself be worshipped; always preferring the role of the worshipp _er_ , but the way Cas is staring down at him makes him feel like a precious gem.

He sits up to kiss his friend, still soft, still reverent. This feels special to Dean; the novelty, the passion he suddenly feels is overwhelming and he wants Cas to know that, to feel it too. Cas’ hands cradle Dean’s face, his thumbs caressing his cheekbones. Dean ducks his head, his eyes falling closed, pressing kisses to Castiel’s palms, the smooth skin on the inside of his wrists, dragging his lips lovingly over the softness there. His chest is heaving when he feels Cas’ fingers wrap gently around Dean, lining him up once more before Cas is sinking down on him again with a sigh. Dean buries his face into Castiel’s neck, his arms lining right up against Cas’ back, holding his body flush against his chest.

“Cas,” he breathes, not sure what else he wants to say, but believing in that moment that Cas’ name is enough to articulate every thought, every feeling. And then Cas is grinding his hips and Dean’s brain checks out entirely.

* * *

 

The room is several shades darker when Dean finally peels himself off of Cas; the skin of their chests and stomachs stuck together with sweat and Cas’ come. He suddenly feels shy, and he huffs an awkward laugh before rolling off of him to drop next to him on the mattress. He stares at the ceiling, feeling strangely numb, despite the pleasant tingle dancing over his skin. Both of them are breathing heavily, and through the post-orgasm haze, Dean can feel the familiar clawing of panic sinking its nails into his throat. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s up and padding across the floor to Cas’ en suite.

He looks back when he’s at the doorway, but Cas isn’t looking at him; just picking at a loose thread on the sheet where Dean was lying seconds before. Dean feels his eyebrows pull together for a split second, but he decides to ignore a sudden tightness in his chest; his thoughts a deafening chorus of _what the hell did you just do_?

He steps into the shower, turning the water on and running his hands roughly over his face and into his hair. God, what just happened? He just had sex with his flat mate, his _friend_. His completely heartbroken friend, _oh shit._ Dean braces himself against the wall of the shower, breathing deeply, trying to calm himself. Had he just taken advantage of his emotionally-fragile friend? Was Cas even asking for that? He hadn’t said no… but… he was also crying… did Dean feel anything except _dutiful?_   It had certainly been intense, whatever he was feeling, but he isn't totally sure... Despite the curl of nausea in his stomach, his heart flutters happily, and that was just… God, were they going to have to _talk_ about this?

* * *

 

Castiel stares at the spot in the bed where Dean was just a few seconds before, listening to the water running through the half-closed door to the en-suite.

_What just happened?_

That was weird right? How Dean had just rolled off him and escaped to the shower without a word? The bed’s still burning warm with Dean’s heat, and every inch of Castiel’s skin is tingling pleasantly as the memory of Dean’s fingers ghosts along the surface. Why is this suddenly the most awkward he’d ever felt? Dean's his closest, his dearest friend… and actually, thinking about it, maybe _that’s_ why.

Up until an hour or so ago, Castiel hasn’t really considered Dean as anything other than that, his friend... And then suddenly, what - Dean’s Adonis incarnate? God, he’d basically forced himself upon Dean back there. How could he have been sure that Dean was even up for that? And what about that surge of emotion he’d felt when he held Dean close to him? Had  _that_ been real? Or a pesky by-product of the pleasure he'd felt? God, what has he done? Dean seemed to want nothing more than to get away now… would he leave? Move out? Where would he go?

Castiel holds his head in his hands, before turning around and burying his face into the pillows, trying desperately to escape all of these questions. He had to know how Dean felt. They just _had_ to talk about this.

* * *

 

When Dean appears again, he’s looking anywhere but at Castiel, who’s still lying naked between the sheets. Cas wants to reach out to him; wants to envelop him in his arms and just _be,_ like they were not twenty minutes ago. He’s surprised that, despite his doubts twisting his stomach and flooding his brain, he doesn’t actually want to take any of it back; he doesn’t _regret_ what happened… he just wants to know that Dean feels the same way. He stands there, in his work trousers and nothing else, and Castiel has a hard time keeping his eyes steady upon Dean’s face. He watches, somewhat calmly, as Dean runs the towel roughly through his hair before stammering,

“Well this has been... You're... I’ve… um… there’s a… I have to… yup,” before making a swift exit, slamming his bedroom door behind him. _Right. No, good. Fine,_ Cas thinks bitterly, before throwing a pillow over his face, pressing down hard and yelling into it, any serenity he’d pretended to possess thoroughly torn from him. _Losing two in one day, what an achievement, Novak._

 

* * *

 

Dean’s hands are shaking as he pulls on his coat and boots. He tries to pull in several deep, steadying breaths through his nose, but they’re shuddery and do nothing to alleviate the feeling that he’s _drowning_. He can’t breathe.

_Oh my god, what the fuck, oh my god, oh my god._

He swallows hard, shoving his phone into his pocket before doing what Dean Winchester does best: he runs away from his problems.

London’s glass walls glint brightly with the setting sun, gleaming lights mirroring the striking colours of another February sunset. Street lamps blink awake, shining pools of dark orange light against the pavement below.

Dean walks fast, determined, even though he doesn’t quite know where he’s going. That is, until he’s already there. It’s not raining this time, and he’s a whole lot cleaner than he was that day, but here he is, staring at that same bit of pavement where he and Cas first met. _God,_ it feels like years ago now, but in reality it's been a matter of months. In that tiny stretch of time, Dean’s life has flipped a total 180 and, in all honesty, he's having a hard time keeping up.

He recalls with a shudder the endless nights, curled up on flattened cardboard boxes to keep him off the cold, hard ground, trying his hardest to ignore the shouts of drunk co-workers and students as they made their way home to their warm beds. His bed had been the pavement, his roof the stars, and for one night, that might have been poetic, romantic even; he could’ve called himself a nomad, going where the wind took him, detached from consumerism and the evils of society, if it were only for _one_ night.

All the same, he’d been one of the lucky ones; some people spent _years_ on the streets. He'd been fortunate enough to have only spent a month in that hell. He looks up from the hallowed spot (where he’d been staring a six-foot deep hole into the concrete, with a view to hunker on down and bury himself with his guilt) and sees a small figure curled in the corner, between this building and the next. A twisted shadow of his former self. As he gets closer, he finds the body is no illusion, presenting itself as some sort of Christmas Past (come Valentine’s?) haunting, but a human being, snuggling into a tartan blanket to stave off the worst of the evening chill. He rummages about in his (Cas’) coat, thankful that his wallet never leaves the inside pocket as he pulls out a £20 note to press into the man’s cup; thrust out in a gloved-hand with next to no eye-contact, a silent plea for salvation etched into the hunch of his shoulders. It's like looking into a window to the past, and Dean feels his heart grow several pounds heavier.

“Here, pal, get yourself into a shelter tonight,” he says, waiting for the man to look up, before dropping the money in his cup.

“Thank you… really, thank you, sir,” tired, golden-hazel eyes bore into his, a smile just visible through the bushy beard, peppered with grey.

“It’s no bother, honestly,” Dean smiles, moving to walk on.

“Wait… you… you’ve been here before, haven’t you? Homeless, I mean,” the man ventures. Dean frowns, wondering how on earth the guy might have come to that conclusion. He walks slowly, deliberately back towards the man.

“Um… yeah, yeah I have. This was actually one of my favourite spots-“

“The awning, right? Nice and wide,” the man smiles, motioning up to the overhang that had brought Cas and Dean together just a few months previous. Dean smiles a sad smile and nods.

“How did you know?” Dean asks, curiosity temporarily burning away his guilt and shame.

“Ah, you just have that look about you, no offense; just that you’ve known true loneliness, true despair,” he says sadly, picking at his blanket.

Dean’s grin falls from his face, and he nods again solemnly. His mind is suddenly plagued with memories; never quite getting warm enough to feel his fingers, going without anyone speaking to him sometimes for days on end, depending on the good-will of others to determine whether or not he’d have a roof over his head for the night, or warm food in his achingly empty stomach. And then, the memory of Castiel, sodden and cold, the bright (yet sun-less) sky back-lighting him as if he were some heavenly sign, standing above him with his hand outstretched, offering his time, his home to Dean, as if he somehow _owed_ those things to him. Dean knows how Cas had felt now, standing over this hopeless soul.

Dean feels he owes this man something… the £20 note not even slightly filling the hole currently splitting his gut like a knife.

_What the hell, eh? Pay it forward or something._

“Sir… would you like to come to lunch with me,” he checks his phone for the time, “uh… late lunch? With me?” He’s feeling hugely bashful, hoping that he doesn’t sound too condescending. Had Cas felt this embarrassed all those months ago?

“ _Sir_ , is it?” the man laughs shyly, making to stand, “Can’t remember the last time someone called me that. Sure, I’d like that very much… um-”

“Dean, sorry… It’s Dean.” Dean grins, holding out his hand.

“Chuck,” the man said, gripping his hand tightly.

* * *

 

He and Chuck squeeze into a booth at The Old Bell Tavern; he’s never been, but it's the only one within easy walking distance. The pub is of classic English aesthetic; decorated in deep reds, and dark woods, smelling faintly of stale smoke (despite the indoor-smoking ban) and hops from the barrels of local beers stored just under the floorboards. Conversation had flowed easily on the way there, as Chuck’s tentativeness gave way to an easy gregariousness; telling Dean of his descent into homelessness, how he’d near drank himself into an early grave each and every day, mostly the fault of his publisher, who’d dropped Chuck, and his book series on his ass when it wasn’t selling anywhere near the amount of copies anticipated. His money, like Dean’s, was quickly swallowed by the city, quicker than he could replenish it, until he was evicted on accounts of… well, not paying rent, for one.

“The city just… chewed me up and spit me out, I guess,” Chuck explains, a sad smile etched into his features as he accepts the pint of dark ale that Dean hands to him.

“Thanks,”

“Don’t mention it,” Dean smiles, wondering belatedly if he should have got Chuck an orange juice instead of alcohol…

“So, what about you, Dean? What’s your story?” Chuck asks, taking a large gulp of ale, his face cracking into a grin, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Now, _that’s_ what the doctor ordered!” he exclaims, pressing a kiss to the side of the glass, “I’ve missed you,” he whispers to it reverently. Dean chuckles, taking a sip of his own.

“Do you guys need some time alone?” he jokes and Chuck shakes his head, laughing freely.

“Sorry, man. It’s just… it’s been a pretty long time. Go ahead, tell me about yourself,” he smiles, finally setting his glass down and folding his hands together.

“Ah, there isn’t much to tell, Chuck, I’m a simple man,” Dean says, pretending to peruse the menu in front of him, sticky with spilt condiments and sugary drinks, as if he could stomach _anything_ right now.

“Right, which is why you’ve been barely concealing a face like a slapped arse this whole time: we’ll be here a while, Dean, and I think this might just be one of those rare occasions in life where you can confide in an absolute stranger. I’m a totally willing participant; not saying I’m a guru or a God or anything, but I want to help if I can. Tell me what’s eating you,” he implores, pushing the top of the menu down to catch Dean’s eyes with his own.

“Alright, alright,” Dean relents, folding the menu and passing it to Chuck, feeling a little incredulous at how easy Chuck is to talk to. He’s not normally a man for sharing his feelings with people he _knows_ , let alone perfect strangers, but he must have changed in the last few months… _Damn Cas._

“What do you want to know?”

“Start at the beginning; where were you born?”

“London, baby, born and raised in Epping,” Dean pronounces, rolling his shoulders proudly.

“That’s Essex-“

“Shut up, it’s on the underground, it’s London.” Dean snaps jokingly, all too used to this argument.

“Sorry,” Chuck smiles into the menu.

“Me and my brother Sammy, my parents, we lived there for a good long while… I lost my mother to cancer when Sammy and I were knee-high to a grasshopper… my father to a car crash when I was 19…”

“Dean, I’m so sorry-“

“Nah, man, it wasn’t your fault, was it?” he waves Chuck’s apology away with a flippant movement of his hand, “Sammy came to live with me in my flat while I was at University… it wasn’t too bad. Anyway, I was at the Royal College of Music-“

“What do you play?”

“Jazz trumpet,” Dean answers, grinning proudly.

“Nice,” his companion concedes. A tired looking waitress comes to take their order; Dean assures Chuck that he can have whatever he wants, and orders the same, feeling all too confused to decide for himself.

“Yeah, they were… mostly good times,” he continues, once she has left their table with a heavy sigh. “You know, apart from losing my dad, I learnt a lot… thought I was going to be the next big thing. Ended up going into teaching after I had a falling out with the original singer of the group I played with. Bela Talbot… what a bitch,” he smirks, gulping a large mouthful of the heavy ale in his glass.

“So, yeah… graduated, taught in schools, did alright for myself, and then… fuckin’ tories, man, cut all the funding for music in schools, and I was booted out left, right and center. I managed to stay afloat throughout the summer but, man, I ran dry fast. Sammy was at Uni himself by that point, over in Oxford, and I didn’t want to ruin his first year for him with my shit, you know… and we’d had a bit of a falling out before he left; I guess I was just too selfish to let him leave, didn’t want to be totally alone for the first time since college.” Dean lowers his gaze, thinking maybe he should give Sam a call some time soon; although they’d managed to patch things up, he still had a hell of a lot to make up to him.

Chuck nodded and hummed in all the right places, his eyes trained solely on Dean; a pleasant, yet slightly daunting feeling, making the hairs on Dean’s forearms stick up on end.

“I, uh, spent a month on the street, and I know full well I’m one of the luckiest sons of a bitch out there. It was November, right, and I was out where you were just now, 8:30 in the morning; begging the same old suits: same shit, different day. Only, _that_ day everything changed. There was… there was this guy…” he realises he’s smiling like a kicked puppy at the memory; wistful, bittersweet. “He was dressed like he was going to work, but ain’t no way in hell he was on time; it was like 9:20 plus when I saw him running to the crossing. It’s pouring with rain, the guy doesn’t have a hood or an umbrella, he’s already wet, and then _whoosh_ , this bus fucking happy splashes him like I’ve never seen; honestly, I didn’t believe that actually happened to people. The puddle was like, filthy too, the guy was completely drenched and muddy. Anyway, he comes under the awning, and rings into the office, doing this dorky _I’m sick_ routine to get the day off, and I’m surprised his boss bought it, but… yeah. Sorry, I’m rambling,” he smiles weakly, but Chuck shakes his head and motions with his hand for Dean to continue.

“Uh… yeah, we got talking, and he asked me to hang out at his place. At first I was paranoid, but the guy seemed pretty harmless… we had, just… _the_ most amazing day. We ate takeout, listened to jazz… talked about ourselves, and it was just… so natural you know? It was then I realised I’d been lonely ever since Sam moved away; like, really lonely. I realised I hadn’t spoken to anyone except my landlord and dicks from _British Gas_ since he moved… it was… surreal. And, I just found myself opening up to him, I told him a whole host of stuff that I don’t normally tell people… and he, uh. He asked me to move in with him, and I, after a night of thinking about it, graciously accepted.” There’s a tightness in his chest as Dean thinks of how he left Cas just now; he wonders how he can even begin to apologise… to make this situation right.

Everything he and Cas had built; Dean had just torn it apart like wet tissue.

“Sounds like one hell of a man,” Chuck grins, twiddling the salt-shaker about in his hands.

“Oh god, he’s an _angel,_ I mean, he’s just too good, you know? He’s been… trailing about after this absolute _arsehole_ since then; I hated him. Today, he caught the bastard cheating on him. On _Valentine’s day_ , I mean, what a douche,” Dean spills, wondering just how much he’s going to end up telling Chuck about his personal life.

“Sheesh,”

“But… ah, man, I dunno… things between us have got a bit weird since then,” _I’ve got to learn when to stop talking…_

“In the last few hours?”

“Yeah… we… ended up…God, _why_ am I telling you this? We, uh, hooked up,” Dean winces, feeling a flush heat the shells of his ears. Chuck snorts, but thankfully holds off any sort of response as the waitress lays their food on the table with a mumbled _Enjoy your meals_. The next time Chuck speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper,

“Wow, did not have you pegged-“

“Shut up,” Dean chides, throwing a napkin in his direction.

“Sorry,” Chuck laughs, dodging the assailant easily enough, “So, what’s the problem? Surely you should be on cloud nine, not here with little old me,” Chuck accuses, pointing a ketchup-clad chip at his face before popping it into his mouth.

“The problem is I panicked and ran for the hills… I guess… I’m a little overwhelmed at the suddenness of it all. One minute he was my friend… the next… I can’t even be sure if he wanted to… you know-”

“What's making you doubt?”

“I dunno… he was crying and stuff,” Dean murmured bashfully to the scarred wooden table.

“During?” Chuck snorts, teasing as if they’d been acquaintances for much longer than an hour.

“N-no, dude, before,” Dean frowns. Chuck only shrugs in response, nodding slowly.

“So, what’s overwhelming you, princess?” he raises an eyebrow quizzically.

“Stuff…” Dean groans, holding his head in his hands as he realises he was having the exact conversation he had run away from in the first place.

“Stuff?”

“You know, feelings and crap,” he grunts, his voice muffled by his hands.

“Oh. You think you felt something for him when you were…”

“I dunno…” Dean lowers his hands, one snaking around the back of his neck to rub at the skin there; that oddly reassuring habit he can’t remember _not_ doing.

“And you’re frightened that he… what? Doesn’t reciprocate those feelings? You’re worried maybe you were a rebound?” Chuck asks through a bite of burger. Dean hadn’t honestly thought about that… but now that he does, his heart drops straight out his butt. At least he knows, for absolute certain (based on that physical reaction to the notion), that he doesn’t want this to be a one-time thing.

_Christ. Okay._

Dean’s quite happy to pretend that Chuck gives two shits about how this story turns out, although in reality, he knows he’s probably only there because of the free food.

“Something like that,” Dean sighs sadly, cradling his beer in his hands.

“I’m guessing you haven’t spoken to him.”

“Nah… I was out of there like a bat outta hell, man, I was gone.”

“Well, Dean… I think we both know the answer to this particular conundrum. Are you gonna eat that?” Chuck motions to Dean’s plate with another chip. Dean gulps nervously, shaking his head and pushing his plate across the table.

 *****

The flat is dark when Dean finally returns (he’d walked Chuck to the nearest homeless shelter, emptying his wallet into his hand just before he left), save for the light peeping out underneath Castiel’s bedroom door. He flips the hallway light on and listens. It’s intensely quiet; Dean’s nervous gulp reverberates around the empty hallway. He shakes himself out of Cas’ coat, and hangs his keys up on the hook before smacking his cheeks with his palms, muttering,

“Come on, man, you can do this, you can- it’s Cas, you know, it’s _Cas_. Chuck, was right you just gotta… you gotta-“

_God, what am I doing?_

He puffs out all the breath in his lungs before walking to and fro past Castiel’s front door at least four times before finally forcing his feet to just _stand still._ The next part of his body to disobey him is his hand; first clenching and unclenching, and then rising and falling, almost knocking and then backing away, and _God, this is so stupid._ How did he even think himself into this mess? He’s Dean fucking Winchester, and he’s going to knock on this door, so help him-

There’s a rustling and a sniffing that comes from the other side of the door, and it opens just as Dean’s hand finally makes contact with the door. _Dammit._

“Hey C-“

The door promptly slams in his face, and he hears the distinct _click_ of the lock.

“Oh Cas, com- Dammit,” Dean relents, his head falling to the door with a thump.

*****

It’s been forty-five minutes since Castiel’s bedroom door last opened; he’s stayed posted outside of it like a bodyguard ever since. He reasons the guy will probably get hungry eventually, and then he’ll have to come out and _talk to him_. Dean really doesn’t know what happened to make _him_ the one desperate to talk about his feelings, but he finds he doesn’t really care; he hurt Cas, he wants to make it better. He’s wasted the whole day running from this, and he’s tired of it; tired of the weight on his chest, tired of this raging headache searing just behind his eyes from all the _thinking._ No, it’s time to fix this. He tries another gentle knock against the door: it’s been five minutes since his last attempt.

“Cas… come on, come out? I don’t… really know how to do this, but… let’s just talk… please?” he pleads, his head lolling forwards against the wall, almost resigning to the fact he may have to wait until tomorrow. His heart near bursts out of his chest when he hears Castiel’s door unlock; whole symphonies take their roots in that fucking beautiful sound. Dean’s grin is wiped clean off his face when he sees his friend’s eyes; so dead, so _done_.

“Cas-“ he breathes, watching as Cas leans heavily against the door frame.

“What is it, Dean? I’m tired, I’ve had about all the drama I can handle for one day and-“

“Can we just… talk about what happened earlier?”

“No, Dean, I don’t want to,” Cas rolls his eyes, swallowing with a click.

“Please, man, I know that I acted like a dick, just leaving you straight away, but… I don’t know, I panicked-“

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Castiel narrows his eyes, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Jesus! No, just… god, I just meant that it’s been a long time I’ve done that with anyone, let alone with a guy… and-“ _It’s never felt quite like that before._

“And what, Dean?” Castiel sighs, pinching his fingers at the bridge of his nose.

“I just-“

“No, actually, you know what? Save it, I’ve had enough excuses thrown my way today-“ he makes to close the door again, and Dean just can’t let that happen; he throws a hand out to stop him, desperation flooding his voice,

“You were just so upset-“

“You took _pity on me?!-“_

“N- Cas, no that’s-“

“Oh my god-“

“Look, you’re taking this all the wrong way-“

“Oh, I see, so it’s my fault-“

“Cas! Come on, man, get off the defensive-“

“I have had possibly one of the worst Valentine’s Days on record, Dean, I’ve made a complete idiot of myself-“

“Cas, stop-“

“Look, it’s alright. I know what you’re trying to say-“

“ _Cas_ -“

“And I’m happy to just forget it ever happened too. I agree; it was a mistake, and it won’t happen again-”

“I don’t want to forget-”

“I just want to pretend like it didn’t happen, get back to where we were-“

“Cas, that’s not what I want-“

“I’m such a _fool,_ what was I thin- wait, what?” The silence opens up like a vacuum in the absence of their warring voices; the tension threatening to stop Dean’s heart dead.

“I don’t want to pretend like it didn’t happen. It wasn’t a mistake, not for me.” Dean mumbles, his eyes darting between Castiel’s, searching for any sign of recognition or… understanding.

“Dean, don’t… don’t feel like you have to do this for me, all right, enough of the pity party now,” Castiel begs, his voice almost breaking.

“It’s not a pity party, Cas, god, will you just let me get this out?” Dean’s shouting again, and he hates that he’s doing that; this wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

“Save it, Dean, I’ve had enough,” Cas murmurs, his voice sounding so utterly flat and lifeless, shaking his head as he closes his bedroom door. The lock clicks once more, and Dean sinks to the floor, leaning his back against the barrier that lay between him and one of the most important people in his life. He sighs, looking down at his hands and blinking away the stinging in his eyes.

_One more try,_ he thinks anxiously, _you’ve got to give it one more go. You can’t lose him._

He cranes his neck in a vain attempt to send his voice more directly through the door, words bubbling from his chest, the aching cavity of his heart,

“Listen, Cas… _Castiel_...” he closes his eyes, the action alone easing the passage of the words that tumble alarmingly freely from his mouth, “I haven’t had a home since I was 18… I’ve lived in a lot of places, you know? I moved five times in four years over my time at college, and it didn’t matter how many posters Sammy and I tacked to the walls… it didn’t matter where we went, nothing ever felt like _home,_ you know? And… the first flat I had without Sammy in it? Man, that- that was the worst of them all. I was alone, a-a-and _drowning_ in self-pity, truly I was.

And when I lost it all, I convinced myself I’d never have a _home_ again. I felt like home was something people with parents had, that home was some place safe, with family, you know? But, even with Sam at my side, I never found it. Now? Now, I walk in that front door and I _am_ home. I get that feeling I’ve been missing this whole time. Home is… it’s here, it’s you. Home is sitting in that living room shouting at the TV and eating three times our advised daily fat intake in one sitting; it’s… our early morning cuddles, and late night talks, and texting during work when you’re supposed to be in a serious meeting, being… serious and shit,” he chuckles tearfully.

“Jesus, Cas, you gave me… everything I have now, and I just hope to God I haven’t ruined it, because this is it for me; you saved my _life,_ man. Gave me a second chance. And I know I don’t deserve a third, I know I don’t, but I’m asking anyway like the utter asshat I am… you know. Just in case you’re thinking about forgiving me.”

After what feels like halfway to a lifetime, Cas lets out a quiet laugh and Dean realises with a watery grin that he’s sat on the other side of the door.

“I don’t like it when you call me Castiel; it sounds weird,” he says, his voice barely audible through the wood, but Dean thinks it doesn’t sound even nearly as miserable as it did two minutes ago, “and this is only your second chance with me.”

“It is?” Dean says, wiping at his cheeks gruffly with the back of his hand.

“Yeah…” comes the tearful reply. Dean’s hands shoot back to stop his fall, as the door behind his back swings open. He scrambles up to standing, and then Cas… _his Cas_ is clinging to him and Dean cries like the _sappy little bitch he is_. He grabs fistfuls of Castiel’s shirt, of his hair, gathering him in his arms, whispering a gentle mantra of _I’m so sorry_ against the skin of Cas’ neck. They pull back from one another, hands cradle faces, breathless laughs tumble out of parted lips. Cas is crying for the hundredth time today, but for the _first_ time, it’s not down to his broken heart.

Dean leans forward and presses a kiss to the tip of Cas’ nose, delighting when he feels it crinkle beneath his lips. It’s like the first mouthful of water to a dying man, and he never wants to feel that desperate for relief _ever again_. He peppers kisses along Castiel’s cheekbones, around his temples, nudges his nose into his hairline as he litters his forehead with caresses laden with the heavy burden of unsaid words. When he looks down at Castiel once more, those eyes are shining again; deep crinkles form at the corners in lieu of his gleaming smile.

“What happened to _no chick flick moments?_ ” he challenges, his hands running down Dean’s arms.

“Shut up,” Dean laughs, leaning his forehead against Cas’. _God,_ he’d spent so long denying himself this unadulterated joy, and for what? _Literally, for what?_

“So, what does this mean... for us I mean,” Cas whispers, and Dean cants his head back with a laugh; relief washing over his heart like a flood.

“Cas, do me a favour? Stop talking. I know five minutes ago it’s all I wanted to do… but, let’s just… save it for tomorrow. We’ve got a few more hours of Valentine’s day left, and I’m pretty sure you still owe me a couple of episodes of Judge Judy and a cup of tea.” He grins wickedly against the tender kiss that Castiel presses to his lips, following that sweet, _sweet_ forgiveness when Castiel pulls away with a happy hum.

“You know what, Dean,” Cas teases with another lingering kiss, two strong arms encircling his waist, “I think I could be persuaded to do just that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's finally done!  
> Thank you so much to everyone who has supported this monster that morphed from a one shot into possibly the piece of work I'm most proud of to date.  
> Just, thanks <3 and love, as always.


End file.
